


Little Monster

by TheWritingSquid



Series: Disaster Dad [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dadgil, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, He tries his best okay, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Abuse, Post-DMC3, Spardaghetti, Toddler!Nero, Vergil is a terrible parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: Some days, Vergil thought he should have let himself fall into Hell.He had caught Dante’s hand by reflex, against his better judgement, against his pride. But once his brother held on, it had turned impossible to let go. The humiliation of defeat had tightened his chest with every step of their way back to the human world, filling the silence between them, burning away any words they had left. It stayed with Vergil long after he’d vanished, leaving Dante and the scorching memories behind.None of it compared to the utter hopelessness of watching a three-year-old child throw a tantrum on the floor while wearing pants stained from his diarrhea. And not just any three year old, his.---An alternate universe in which Vergil survives DMC3, only to discover a few years later that he has a son to take care of.





	1. A Dysfunctional Family

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to all the art of Vergil holding a baby Nero, because it's 100% the reason this fic happened. Enjoy Vergil being kind of a shit dad (he's very UNPREPARED OK) but trying very hard. XD

Some days, Vergil thought he should have let himself fall into Hell.

He had caught Dante’s hand by reflex, against his better judgement, against his pride. But once his brother held on, it had turned impossible to let go. The humiliation of defeat had tightened his chest with every step of their way back to the human world, filling the silence between them, burning away any words they had left. It stayed with Vergil long after he’d vanished, leaving Dante and the scorching memories behind.

None of it compared to the utter hopelessness of watching a three-year-old child throw a tantrum on the floor while wearing pants stained from his diarrhea. And not just any three year old, _his_. Vergil was nauseous from the smell, exhausted from a week of this absolute nightmare, and at a complete loss of what to do.

How was _this_ his life now? This child’s yells could match any demons and he wouldn’t stop, would just keep going and going, relenting only to breath deep and start again, even louder. Vergil’s ears were ringing, his heart thumping hard, anger roiling within. He didn’t understand a word of it, not anymore, not with his head spinning so much.

“Stop!” he snapped, for perhaps the hundredth time in the last half hour. He stomped to the tantrum-beast and loomed over him. “What do you think this will accomplish, child? Crying won’t get you clean! Nor will thumping the ground with your fists! Cease this at once!”

Red-rimmed blue eyes stared at him for one, hope-filled moment, then the child cried even harder. Vergil clamped his hands over his ears, as if that would be any help. Why had he ever thought he was capable of this? Why had he dragged this monster back with him? Why wouldn’t Nero just _shut up_ , like he had on the first night? This was--it was too much.

“Fine! Whatever, whelp! You can cry until the sky comes down on your head for all I care. Keep going and fall asleep in your own shit, why don’t you? You’re used to it!” He spun on his heels and walked to his own room, slamming the door behind himself before leaning against it and letting himself slide down, to the ground. Nero continued screaming, the sound barely muffled by the door, grating at his self-control like waves slamming against a friable cliff. Maybe _that_ had been the real trap: a monstrous, implacable toddler to drive him crazy.

Vergil thumped his head against the door, legs stretched out before him, and tried to breathe more calmly. All of this because he had let a pot of pickles within easy reach while he was desperately trying to scrub the vomit stains off his coat. It had taken Nero mere minutes to down the pickling juice, and when Vergil had come running, he’d flung the pickles at his face. Were all children like this, or was his particularly cursed? It didn’t matter. He was stuck with Nero now, had a duty to him. Someone needed to protect this child, even if that particular task turned out worse than the Hell he’d barely avoided.

At least Vergil knew which of them was the more stubborn of the two. He reached up for the small table by the door and the William Blake collection by it, opened it at the delicate leather bookmark he’d left within, and resolutely returned to it. The incessant screams marred the beauty of the verses to some extent, and he promised himself another reread later on, under better circumstances. For now, he kept at it until the ear-splitting screams became softer sobs, then hiccups, and finally silence.

There it was. Perhaps giving Nero attention had only worsened his tantrum. Vergil heaved himself back up and set down the collection.

“ _Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare_ ,” he said with a slight smile as he cracked the door open.

Nero had moved across the room, crawling on the floor to cry right at his door. He’d left a glaring brown track along the way, but he was sitting up now, rubbing one tiny fist over his eyes--a miraculously _clean_ one, at least. Bright red tracks lit his puffy cheeks, and his silk-white hair had stains in it. Cleaning up would be a nightmare. Vergil sighed.

“Are you done now?” he asked, hoping his tone would convey his meaning.

The child leaned forward, reaching for his pants, and Vergil reflexively stepped away in disgust. This provoked an immediate wail from Nero, and fear shot through Vergil.

“No no _no_.” He bent over and picked him up in a hurry, steeling himself against the smell of excrements and its warmth on his hand when he set it under Nero to hold him. “Please do not cry again. I have you. It’s over now.”

“Cease,” Nero said, his mumble eerily similar to Vergil’s own cold tone earlier. Then he set his second hand, the one he had most definitely slapped into liquid shit, directly over Vergil’s mouth and chin.

Vergil clamped down on his body, setting years of discipline against his urge to retch or talk or do anything that would involve opening his mouth. Lips pressed tight shut, he half-ran to the bathroom, snatched the only clean washcloth, and soaked it in soap and water. His left arm ached from holding Nero as he moved, but the little bomb was waiting for an excuse to explode again, and he dared not put him back down. Vergil wiped his mouth first, taking a deep breath the moment he’d removed all fecal matter around his lips, then he dumped Nero in the tiny sink and set to work, starting with the hands before this child spread his feces any farther.  

At first, Nero kept grabbing at his hands, trying to hold or stop him, but he had no strength left in his grip, and he was clearly falling asleep where he sat. Vergil worked as fast as he could, giving up on any pretense that his own hands would remain clean through this ordeal. Had a single day passed where he _hadn’t_ been forced to clean this child, anyway? He removed shirt, pants, and overfilled diaper, transferred the small, shivering body to the shower, and once more blessed his choice of a movable shower head. It helped, especially since he wanted to avoid drenching the small bandage on Nero’s arm. Vergil took off his own stained shirt while the water warmed, keeping an eye on Nero, who seemed primed to fall asleep and knock his head on the bath. And wouldn’t that be his luck, after everything else? Vergil touched the water--not exactly warm, but it’d do.

“All right, little monster,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed so I can rid my flat of your excrements.”

Cleaning Nero himself wasn’t awful, once one learned to detach their soul from the corresponding body with hands in shit-soaked water, and at least the child remained asleep once wrapped in thick towel. Vergil even managed to shampoo him with the blue shampoo essential to keeping his hair a perfect, snowy white, which the little demon had categorically refused the first time around. A vague sense of victory threaded his tired disgust, and he dumped Nero on the single bed before he turned his attention to the rest of his home. That diarrhea had left traces in more corners than he cared to consider.

By the time he was satisfied with the state of his house, the sun had long fallen, and he was just about ready to do the same. He dragged his feet back to the bedroom, where Nero was blessedly still sleeping, and squeezed himself beside the child, not even bothering with the blankets. Experience told him that, with luck, he could expect two or three hours of sleep, and then this nightmare would begin anew.

 

###

 

It was the middle of the day, but Vergil had forgotten the meaning of time. How many days, since he’d done more than snatch a few minutes of sleep here and there, between feeding and cleaning and fighting with this awful child, who threw tantrum over every word, everything? It felt like Nero did nothing but cry and scream until he was too exhausted, then sleep, then wake up and clamour for a meal, and Vergil existed only within these parameters.

He sat on his bed now, Nero asleep besides him, clutching the black marker over which they’d fought. Because Nero did nothing but dirty everything with it, always drawing and marking. He’d ruined so many clothes and bedsheets by now, but none of it mattered to this little monster, nothing but his damned marker. And it’d been fine, almost laughably unimportant in the string of nonsensical arguments they had every day, until Nero had barred entire paragraphs from Vergil’s research books.

They laid on his desk, in a corner of the room, and had gone untouched since Nero had brutally appeared in Vergil’s life. His latest hunch, another way for demons to gain more power, his next plan to better himself, become stronger, unbeatable… all set aside for this child, this little monster who refused to listen to a single word. _His son_ , who needed him, needed this protection, this power.

Vergil ran a hand over his face, trying to fight off the waves of exhaustion. He’d never return to this research with Nero around. He could barely find the time and energy to eat, and get the child to eat. Figuring out when and how this supposed demon fruit was going to return was entirely out of question. He could barely line up two sentences in his own damn mind, and he didn’t see how it’d get any better. Nero was just… _too much_.

But he had to try, didn’t he? He was his son, and one day demons would return for them, as they had for their mother, and Dante, and Vergil. So he pushed himself away from the bed, dragged his tired body to the desk, and sat down. And there, besides the arcane tome hinting at power, his amulet glinted in the sun, rich gold and blazing red.

Vergil stared at it, caught in a foolish thought he was too exhausted to consider fully, or stop. He picked up the amulet, then Nero’s sleeping little body, and left his flat for the first time in days.

 

###

 

People had no shame. It was the middle of the day, and they just hammered at his door like he was supposed to be awake! The five long minutes of non-answers should have been plenty enough for them to turn away, but whoever his visitor was, they were persistent, and already a pain in the ass. Dante picked up the magazine protecting his eyes from the light, threw it to the ground, then rolled off the couch.

“All right, all right!” he called, his mouth still pasty from sleep. “I’m coming!”

Dante reached the door in a few long strides, flung it open mid-yawn, and found himself facing… Vergil?

His half-asleep mind snapped to attention as it registered icy eyes, white hair, and that damn blue coat (which, uncharacteristically, was covered in stains and black lines). Dante’s hand flew to Ivory and he’d pointed the barrel less than an inch off his brother's forehead before his yawn was over. Vergil hadn't moved, and before Dante pressed the trigger, he finally noticed not only Vergil himself, but everything else _wrong_ about him.

Starting, first of all, with the white-haired child sleeping soundly in his arms.

“What the fuck?”

“Please don't swear around my child,” Vergil snapped.

 _Woah._ His-- “You have a fucking kid?” Dante repeated.

“And he listens to me even less than you do, I'm afraid.”

The bite in his voice was weakened by obvious exhaustion and the great spread of black lines across his face, one of which ran across his lips and into his nose. Dante glanced at the child, who was clutching a black marker even in sleep, and snorted.

Vergil threw him a withering glare and pushed past Dante, into the _Devil May Cry_ , without waiting for an invitation (not that Dante was about to give him one). _Someone_ still thought he had a right to whatever belonged to Dante. He stopped two steps in, swept his gaze across the office space, and let out a profoundly disgusted grunt.

“Never mind,” he said, voice clipped and haughty. “This was a mistake.”

As he spun heels to leave, Dante flung himself between Vergil and the door. “No way, you don’t.” Wasn’t this just like Vergil? Step in, tell him he had a nephew, and leave without another word. Just vanish, like he hadn’t piled more bullshit at Dante’s feet! At least this one wasn’t a tower to the demon world. “I thought you enjoyed committing irreparable mistakes! Why don’t you sit your ass and finish this one?”

He pointed to the couch with Ebony. Vergil stiffened, and when the boy in his arms squirmed, he held a little tighter. Dante would’ve sworn he saw fear pass in his brother’s face, but that was ridiculous. Who feared a kid? Surely not his stupid twin, who had broken Sparda’s seals, summoned an ugly-ass tower, and reached into the demon world itself to grab their father’s power for himself. But whatever that expression had been, it was enough to stop Vergil from leaving. The jackass instead stayed there in silence, glaring at Dante, like he was too proud to admit what he’d come for. Dante rolled his eyes.

“So he’s what, two?”

Vergil pressed his lips for an instant, then admitted through gritted teeth. “He would be three as of last month.”

“Three?” Fuck. Dante was bad at math, but not _that_ much. It was already hard to imagine Vergil caring enough about sex to have a child, but doing it when he’d been deep in power schemes to boot? “You had a fucking baby _before_ you summoned the tower? And left him behind? Are you--”

“I didn’t know,” Vergil cut in, his voice a slicing whisper. “Stop yelling, Dante, you’ll wake him up.”

“Fuck, Vergil.”

“And stop swearing!”

He couldn’t. It was just _too much_. Dante threw his arms up. “I’m gonna need a drink. You look like you need one, too.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped Vergil, but he stomped it out immediately, and when Dante glanced over his shoulder, there wasn’t the hint of a smile on his face. Dante poured whiskey in two different glasses, figuring Vergil could leave it there if he didn’t want any, then he downed his own and served himself a second one. Even that small pause helped him put some thoughts in order. Reframe his entire fucking reality around Vergil being here, two years after they’d tried to kill each other, holding a three-year-old kid he’d claimed as his own. Couldn’t his life have just stayed to its regular rhythm of hunting demons and sleeping?

“All right,” he said. “Are you gonna tell me who you knocked up and why she isn’t the one caring for him? Because you’re shit father material, Vergil.”

“I suspect she’s dead.” Not an ounce of emotion slipped into his voice when he said it. Still as compassionate as ever, huh? “Regardless, she was only human and would not have the power required to handle this child.”

“Ah, yes, the great power of diaper changing!” Dante spread out his arms with a grin. Vergil had always had a habit of spouting dangerous nonsense, but this really deserved a medal. “We are the Sons of Sparda, known for their smooth lullaby voices and child-rearing abilities! Look at you, Vergil. Your coat is full of drool and who knows what else, you have black markers all over your face, and _your hair is half down_. This boy doesn’t need power, he needs a mother.”

His brother touched his lips and nose with a surprised little ‘ah’ as soon as Dante mentioned the marker, then hurriedly pushed his hair back. A few strands refused to stay up, falling right back down, and he scowled. “Always the fool, aren’t you, Dante? But you misunderstand. He needs a protector.”

Vergil shifted his grip on the boy and reached within his coat, retrieving a crinkled envelope and flinging it towards Dante. Inside was a scratched photograph of Vergil’s son, sitting in a cage inside a deserted building, a bright sunray making his white hair almost sparkle. He clung to the same black marker that was still in his hands now and seemed to be writing on the ground, looking away from the camera, completely unfazed by the scythe-armed demons on top of his cage. Along with the picture was a letter in blocky letters (when had demons learned to write?) with most of the usual threats--Sons of Sparda and revenge and yada yada. Dante’s eyes glazed over, until he found the bit about cutting off the bloodline while it was weak and defenceless.

“Surprised they had the self-control not to snuff him out immediately,” Dante commented, glancing up at the child. It didn’t make sense. “You sure they didn’t just bleach a blue-eyed kid to draw you out?”

“That was my expectation,” Vergil said.

“But you walked into their very obvious trap anyway?” He gave the photo and letter a flick, eyebrows raised. And Vergil liked to pretend he was the smart one.

“Of course.” The kid in his arms was starting to struggle against his grip, and Vergil heaved a sigh of frustration. He moved to the couch, gingerly sidestepping the magazines and strewn shirts on the ground, and set him down before looking back at Dante. “Think of me what you will, brother, but I would never allow demons around a child--any child. They were scum, and they deserved what they got.”

“Not gonna argue with that,” Dante conceded.

He would’ve been there in an instant too, but he hadn’t expected Vergil to care about a random child. That was abnormally considerate of him. While his brother settled on the couch, the Yamato on his lap but his son at the other end of the three-seater, Dante dragged the desk chair closer.

“So. How can you be sure he’s yours?”

Vergil tore his gaze from the kid, and back at Dante. In a swift movement, he pulled the Yamato out of its sheath--and Dante found Ebony and Ivory in his hands immediately, the unquestioning reflex born from one too many fights. Vergil smirked at him, then lifted his coat to cast shade on his blade. Shielded from sunlight, Dante noticed the blue sheen on the Yamato’s steel, which grew when Vergil brought the sword closer to his sleeping boy. Without a word (but not without a flourish, never without), he sheathed the Yamato.

“He’s mine. The Yamato knows, and demons smell these things.” Vergil lifted his head and clear blue eyes met Dante’s. “They will return for him, as they have for us, and I will not--” Something caught in his voice and his grip tightened on the Yamato. “He is my duty, and _I_ take my responsibilities as a Son of Sparda very seriously.”

Dante rolled his eyes and leaned back. “Kid's got rotten luck if he’s stuck with you.”

“Better me than a degenerate fool,” Vergil snapped back.

“Oh yeah?” Dante laughed and downed the rest of his whiskey, before flinging the glass over his shoulder. Vergil flinched ever-so-slightly when it shattered, too tired, it seemed, to keep his cold mask steady. “Then tell me, dear brother, why did you come here? You sound like you’re handling all this quite well, so what could your degenerate twin possibly bring you? Surely you don’t need _help_ , of all things!”

Vergil jumped to his feet, chin pointed, shoulders squared, and a stick up his ass. “No, you’re quite right for once,” he said, “I don’t. I’ll find a way. I always do.” He scooped up the kid again, holding tight to the Yamato in one hand. “Goodbye, Dante.”

A brief blue outline shimmered around him, and he was out of the door, _warping_. Dante sprang to his feet and ran after him, flinging the door open, but when he scanned the street, squinting against the sunlight, he found no trace of his brother.

“Damn it, Vergil,” he said. “You didn’t even tell me his name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They'll work it out, I promise. XD I hope you enjoy all of this, because writing it has been a blast!


	2. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil's life is made up of three things now: tantrums, dishes, and diapers--and he thinks back on when he first found Nero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am definitely taking a bunch of liberties with Nero's past, but mostly I am leaving a bunch of questions unanswered. XD. Enjoy!

Nero was running around naked in the house again, and Vergil couldn’t bring himself to care. It was too late for his walls anyway. An area two feet up from the floor was covered in black marks in every single room, and he’d given up on cleaning it two days ago. Or something like that. Frustration from his brief visit at Dante’s at given him a temporary boost of energy, but it was gone now. He’d lost track of time again, living from nap to crisis to meal. Vergil now counted those occasions were Nero amused himself without requiring attention--even if he _had_ protested and fought Vergil until dressing him up was more trouble than it was worth--as blessings. Nero could run around all day if it kept him happy. Vergil should be using the opportunity to clean, but a glance at the dishes drained him of that willpower. Later. Maybe.

At least he’d gotten the child to learn a few key words. It was so very obvious Nero was paying attention to what Vergil said and did, but despite bits translated to Italian, Nero had stayed suspiciously silent when he wasn’t screaming at the top of his lungs, like he had exactly two modes: tantrum and ghost. Vergil didn’t know much about children, but that hadn’t felt normal, and if Nero could just tell him what he wanted, maybe less of their interactions would end with the kid crying. _Big maybe_. Nero clearly understood ‘no’, and didn’t care for it unless he was the one using it.

Vergil stared at the little pants on the table besides him, and the diaper besides it. How long had Nero gone running around like this? Sooner or later, he’d need to pee or worse, and if Vergil hadn’t managed to dress him up again by then… He groaned and gathered his energy for another battle.

“Nero!” he called.

The little boy came running around the corner, a wide smile illuminating his face, and for a brief instant Vergil forgot what he’d called for. Nero didn’t smile or laugh much--they had that in common, at least--but when he did… Vergil couldn’t help but wonder if he might manage more than to protect this child, if he could, perhaps, manage to make him happy too.

But they needed to survive, first.

“It’s time to get dressed,” he said, showing him the diaper. The smile disappeared. “Vestiti.” That was the word for formal wear, he was pretty sure, but whatever. _Close enough._

“No!”

Of course. “Big boys get dressed.”

“Amo naked!” Nero pouted and crossed his arms.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

He grabbed Nero’s arm to pull him closer, and the child immediately burst into a scream and pulled against the grasp. Damn the little monster was strong! Vergil let go, too frustrated to fight, and the sudden release robbed Nero of his balance. He fell hard on his ass, and the angry screams morphed into cries of hurt. Vergil fought a pang of guilt. Surely it couldn’t have hurt _that_ much. Nero just wanted out of dressing up.

“Nero,” he snapped, and that only made him cry harder. Vergil reached down again, but this time Nero scrambled away then up to his feet. He stared back at Vergil, blue eyes full of tears.

“Naked,” he mumbled again, his voice tiny but forceful.

At Vergil’s slightest movement, he sprinted away.

Vergil watched him turn the corner with a sigh. There weren’t many options for Nero to hide in--either he curled up in a corner of the bedroom, or he chose the cold bathroom floor. Either way, he wouldn’t be going far… but he would, inevitably, pee without anything to catch it. Well. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Vergil couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He let his head fall onto the table, still clutching the diaper, and his mind drifted to the start of this nightmare.

 

###

 

A dozen demon pieces fell to the ground around Vergil as he straightened, the unusual shower a direct result of his quick work with the Yamato. He scoffed as they hit the floor with a squish and began disintegrating, leaving nothing but pools and specks of blood behind. Were _these_ supposed to kill him? What laughable conceit. If that was the best of the demon world, they’d never put another scratch on him. Vergil surveyed the area, the Yamato at the ready, expecting another wave, but the room remained unexpectedly silent.

Except, if one paid attention, for a tiny sniffle. The child. He hoped their poor bait knew where to find his family, because he had no intention of searching high and low for them.

Clouds hid most of the moonlight, yet the Yamato was casting an unusual pale blue light tonight, and Vergil recognized the room from his photograph. After a quick scan, he distinguished the outline of metal bars towards the back, no longer under a window as it was in their missive. Vergil strode to it, and frowned as the light from his blade intensified. The Yamato pulled at him, a tug at his heart, and Vergil gritted his teeth.

The potential meaning didn’t escape him, but he wrenched his mind away from it. It couldn’t be. It had been only one clumsy time, on a strange moonless night here in Fortuna. Surely his luck was not this bad.

He knelt in front of the cage, setting the sword down in front of him. Wide eyes stared back at him, their blue intensified by the blade’s light. One was partly hidden by a white bang of hair, and Vergil stilled an impulse to push it back, up the child’s head. With those big puffy cheeks, the kid wouldn’t look remotely like him even with the right hair.

“It’s over now, child,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Do you have a name?”

“Nero.”

“Nero? That’s your name?”

Without answering, the child sat back down, his legs stretched out before him, and reached for a black marker on the ground--the same as in the picture. He uncapped it, and started marking the wooden floor.

“Nero,” he said again, firmly.

Whoever had named a white-haired child ‘Nero’ needed a quick encounter with decency, or perhaps with the Yamato’s edge, but it was too late now. Vergil sighed. The Yamato was still pulling at his senses, whispering the truth, forcing it to the forefront of his mind. He knew exactly who had chosen the name, from his first and last visit to Fortuna, and she was unlikely to have survived the demons to hear his opinion on it. “All right, _Nero_. Do you, perhaps, still have a mother?”

Nero’s only answer was a pout, then the child gave an angry strike with his marker at the ground. He pointed it at Vergil and said again, firmly, “Nero.”

Too late, Vergil realized Nero wasn’t pointing the marker _at_ him, but over him. Shards of ice coalesced around him, plunging into his right arm before encasing it, pinning it and the Yamato to the ground. The pain dragged a surprised cry out of him, but he snapped into a battle trance, drawing upon Sparda’s inheritance with practiced ease. Time ebbed around him, slowing to a near stop as he released his power, and he mentally followed the line of Nero’s marker, called his summoned swords, and sent them flying in that general direction. As time retrieved its normal flow and they thumped satisfyingly in flesh behind him, Vergil pulled on his arm with all his strength, shattering glass and freeing it. The ice spikes in his forearm sent burning pain through it and he could barely lift the Yamato, but that’d heal if he killed his enemies fast enough. He shifted the sword to his left arm and scanned the now empty room.

At any other times, he would be capable of detecting the demonic presence, but whenever he tried to cast his senses out, all he felt was Nero, sitting in a cage behind him. _His_ son. Vergil gritted his teeth and fell back into a fighting stance. He would have to rely on other senses.

Like that flicker of darkness in the moonlight, on his left. And the distortion, there, slinking on the ground from it. Vergil smirked. Demons were never as subtle as they thought. He waited, biding his time as it neared, waiting for it to assume its full form, and when the distortion coalesced into a dark, bloated body, Vergil sprang into action. He leaped upward, back arching as he jumped over two scythe-like arms, and brought the Yamato down in a deadly slice as he landed, cutting through the demon.

The blades clanked to the ground behind him, and he sprinted towards the demon, a mess of purple veins pulsing with power and scarred flesh tangled together. The veins shone white at his approach, shooting more easily-dodgeable shards of ice. Vergil’s smile widened as he sidestepped away--until a child’s scared yelp clamped upon his heart. He stumbled and the three next shards caught him squarely in the chest.

Blinding pain threw him to his knees and he coughed a substantial amount of blood. His ears rang and the rattling screech of scythes on the floor filled the room. Nearing him. And with them, a guttural, mocking voice.

“We will not allow Sparda’s blood to breed. Vermin _must_ be exterminated.”

“I’m glad we agree,” Vergil responded.

The scythe came for him with a crystalline _ting_ and he burst into action. He warped himself across the room, behind the demon, and buried the Yamato deep inside its flesh, holding the disgusting creature steady as its own scythes came flying back, slicing deep within it. Vergil pulled the Yamato out, and even though this pathetic vermin was well dead, he slashed again, and again, and a third time for good measure. Wounds that would never scar, those.

The demon dead at his feet, Vergil cast his gaze across the room, at the small child now crying softly in his cage, a thin red line across his arm. He was barely making a sound, as if afraid to disturb his surroundings. Vergil gritted his teeth. He could have sliced through those shards of ice with the Yamato instead of dodging, and he should have. Too late now. Vergil glanced at the multiple shards of ice embedded in his own body, chest and arm both, and tsked. He needed to take care of those first, the cage second.

“Give me a mo--”

He didn’t finish his sentence. As the demon disintegrated, so did his magic, leaving three gaping holes in Vergil’s chest. Blood spurted out and pain shut his mind for an instant. He fell face first to the ground, but already his demon power flowed through him, blue light shining from his wounds, skin hardening. Vergil struggled to keep the transformation under control, too aware of the pale eyes on him, and fighting against his own healing sent extra pain through his chest. He spat more blood as the wounds closed, exceedingly slowly, and left him panting on the ground.

Well. That had not gone according to plan. Vergil pushed himself up despite feeling hollowed out and exhausted, ran a hand back through his hair, then approached the cage again. It was so small, the kind you bought for young dogs, and Vergil forced himself not to estimate how much time must have passed before the letter reached him. Even coming as fast as he could…

He knelt again, pulling the door open--it wasn’t even locked, not that any such implement would have stopped him--and gestured at Nero to come out.

“It’s safe now, Nero. Let me look at your arm.”

Nero sniffed, and when faced with Vergil’s extended hand, he only offered his marker.

“I don’t care about your pen,” Vergil said, waving it away.

“Nero?” The child repeated, giving the marker a slight shake.

In the Yamato’s pale light, Vergil caught sight of the inscription on it. _Nero_. In Italian, of course. Because he was still in Fortuna, and he’d had no reason to think the child had ever left it, or would speak anything _but_ Italian. Vergil ran a hand over his face, cursing himself for not realizing sooner. Hopefully his smattering of Italian had not eroded too badly over the last few years… What was it again..?

“Habla… italiano?”

He was rewarded by a bright smile, and Nero threw his arms out with a resounding “Sì!”--only to draw the wounded one back to him with a hiss. Vergil’s satisfaction vanished instantly. His heart was pumping so hard, the buzz in his skull had sent all of his vocabulary scampering into hiding. He couldn’t think of a way to tell Nero to come closer, so he just gestured at him. The child--his _son_ , he reminded himself again--slowly walked out, holding his tiny wounded arm close.

“Couldn’t you have inherited the fast healing?” he said, picking up the child as soon as he’d emerged from the small cage, ignoring the latent pain in his own arm.

He was about to add more when he caught the awful stench drifting from Nero, overpowering even the acidic vapes of demon blood all around them. He fought through the nausea, peeked at the cage behind, and realized there was exactly no place for this child to pee, or poop, and he once again forced himself _not_ to think about how long Nero had been there, alone with demons, before the angry ball in his throat transformed into a surge of power, and he razed this entire city to the ground.

By his count, Nero was three and young enough that, with luck, he would forget most of this, but Vergil would rather spend his life in the demon world than let anything like this ever happen again. He held the stinky boy in his arm tighter.

“Come on, Nero. We’re going home. A casa.”

 

###

 

Pounding at his door startled Vergil awake. He jolted up and glanced at the window--still afternoon, but late now. How long had he slept? Where was Nero? He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself off the chair, half stumbling towards the bedroom. No way he was opening that door until he'd found his naked little demon.

“Nero!” he called in half a whisper.

He slipped inside the room and was relieved to find him curled over the bed, half buried under pillows, as if he’d wanted to hide himself from sight. Or maybe he’d been cold… Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose, shoving aside all thoughts of how inadequate he was to this ridiculous task, and searched through the first drawer of his dresser, where he’d shoved a few diapers with his underwear. If he could at least get that on…

More urgent pounding at the door, and to his great dismay, Nero stirred at them, one tiny hand grabbing the pillow, blue eyes flickering open. Panic surged through Vergil--he did _not_ want to fight again--but before he could decide what to do about it, Dante’s familiar voice echoed through his small apartment.

“I heard you shuffle around, Vergil! C’mon, just open up, will ya?”

Vergil did not, in fact, will it. He stared in the vague direction of the entrance, cursed his luck and his brother for coming all this way, no doubt with a dozen different ridiculous one liners to rub this entire situation in, then set aside that particular frustration for the more urgent one: Nero’s naked little posterior. He drew upon his demon energy, freezing time through the bedroom as he rushed the bed, grabbed Nero’s small but powerful legs, and slid the diaper under him. Two weeks had been enough to teach him how to snap a diaper into place with a few quick movements, and he was done long before time crawled back into its regular rhythm.

One problem dealt with. Vergil slunk to the mirror and gave himself a quick once over while Dante started pounding on the door again. He smoothed his hair where he’d slept on it, then grabbed a light blue jacket that’d hide most of the stains on his white shirt. Maybe, just maybe, Dante wouldn’t notice anything off and go away. He’d never been that observant, anyway, and if Vergil had been remotely careful before crawling to him for help like a fool…

“C’mon, brother,” Dante called again. “As fun as humiliating you is, I didn’t come here for it. Open or I’ll break down the door.”

Charming as always. Vergil held no illusion that Dante could be discouraged--if that was his type, he’d never have climbed the entire Temen-ni-gru. Scratching at one last stain of milk on his pant, he headed for the door and threw it open.

Dante waited in full devil hunter gear: long red coat, the Rebellion over his shoulder, straps from his two guns at his belt, and even Cerberus, casually hanging there. _Battle ready_ , Vergil’s mind supplied, and his hand snapped towards his own belt, but his fingers closed over air instead of the Yamato’s grip. A bolt of panic passed through him, and he marshalled it into immediate reaction, dropping into a crouch and kicking at Dante’s legs even as his mind tried to recall where, exactly, he’d left his precious sword. Not the kitchen, not the living room… Maybe next to the shower..? He’d paid so little attention, over the last days, overwhelmed by Nero’s constant needs.

Dante easily sprang back, dodging the kick, and he lifted a palm. His other hand, Vergil noted, held a large bag over his shoulder. “Woah, hey. I’m not here to fight.” And then, because damnit, he had to be somewhat observant if it inconvenienced Vergil, he asked, “Where’s the Yamato? You never leave it.”

Vergil straightened up and set a hand on the door frame, hoping that looked casual. “Inside.”

“And your kid?”

“Also inside.”

Dante rolled his eyes. “Great, then I know where I’m going!”

He tried to duck under Vergil’s arm, but Vergil moved his body in the way, glaring at him. What did Dante even think he was doing? No one had given him permission to enter.

“Leave me,” Vergil said. He had so much to clean still, and Nero would want to eat as soon as he was awake enough to realize he was hungry, and Vergil had nothing prepared because he’d allowed himself to fall asleep on the kitchen table instead of doing the most of this child’s nap.

“No way.” Dante shook the bag over his shoulder, then put a firm hand on Vergil’s shoulder and shoved him aside. The casual rudeness shocked Vergil so much he stumbled out of the way, and then tried to make up for the brief humiliation by glaring at Dante. His brother remained unimpressed. “I got gifts in there, my prideful man, and you’re not allowed to refuse them.”

“I refuse,” Vergil said flatly. “I don’t need your help.”

“Tell that to your face,” Dante said, and Vergil couldn’t help but reach out, wondering if Nero had painted it with the marker again, only to remember he’d actually looked at himself in the mirror and it was _fine_. Dante was just being Dante again. “You look tired as shit, Vergil. And anyway, it’s not your name on the gifts. It’s ‘My Awesome Nephew Whose Name I Don’t Have Because of His Asshole Dad.’ Rings a bell?”

“Nero,” he supplied. “His name is Nero.”

“Really? Nero Sparda?”

Vergil stiffened, anger snapping into him at Dante’s mocking tone. “You go and tell him differently!”

That first night, he had found a fountain with Sparda’s statue and cleaned Nero as much as he could in its water before warping himself into a general store and picking up a few necessities--diapers, bandages, and a few baby pots of mashed food. Then they’d returned to the awful little room Vergil had rented for the night, and he’d bandaged Nero’s arm. Nero hadn’t said a single word through it all, but it’d given time for Vergil to remember a few key phrases, and he’d asked again, his Italian halting.

“Come ti chiami?”

Nero had looked straight at him then, tiny hand still clutching the marker. “Nero.”

Vergil had been too exhausted from his earlier wounds to argue, and besides, he’d already gotten used to thinking of him as that. He’d crawled into bed, holding the child against his aching chest, and fallen asleep blissfully unaware of what awaited him.

It didn’t matter if that had been his name before, Nero responded to it now. Vergil remembered how he’d come running earlier, so thrilled at being naked, and a pang of guilt smothered his irritation with Dante.

“You’re never going to leave us alone, are you?” he asked. He had enough on his plate without dealing with Dante’s immature mockery and his inevitable influence on an already stubborn Nero.

“Don’t say it like you want me to,” Dante said with an exaggerated pout. “Where’s the family love?”

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose. Breathe in. Breathe out. Going to Dante’s door had been a moment of weakness, but it was too late now. Better move on with it.

“Nero?” he called, hoping the kid was a little more awake now. A little head passed through the door immediately. Of course Nero had been listening in. Vergil wondered how much he understood of conversations now. He could not help the reluctance in his voice as he continued. “Come meet my brother. È tuo zio, Dante.”

Dante threw him a confused look--the poor fool had probably caught his name in an otherwise foreign sentence and wondered what insult Vergil had slipped there. As tempting as that was, he didn’t intend Nero to pick up those words if he could help it. The child stepped out of the doorway, one hand on the frame while the others played with his diaper. Nervous and wide-eyed.

“Zio… Dante?”

Dante burst into a laugh and dumped the bag to the ground. “Hell yeah, you’re almost in the nude, buddy! Let me see that cool style.”

He was by Nero in three great strides, scooping him off the ground and throwing up in the air. Nero screamed as Dante caught him, a sound of pure, primal joy that tore away any reproach out of Vergil’s mouth. Dante laughed, threw him again, then spun him as he caught him, drawing another almost hiccupy laugh from Nero. Then he carefully set the boy on his shoulder, slipping him between his head on the Rebellion’s pommel, and turned back to Vergil.

“So what’s zio? Is he calling me an idiot?”

Speechless, Vergil stared at them. At Dante, his goofy little brother, clad from head to toe in weapons, his flaring red coat over a bare chest, one hand hovering up, ready to catch the child on his shoulders should he fall, grinning so damn wide and in a way that was strikingly devoid of its usual wariness… and at Nero, fluffy white hair messed up from his flight, cheeks reddened from smiling too much, one small hand clinging to Dante’s slightly-greasy hair while the other explored his face. He stared at them, paralyzed by how much he loved and hated it.

Of course Dante had needed only a few seconds to make the child happy.

Of course he’d known how, naturally, without hesitation.

Of course Nero was going to smile at him, and laugh with him, and cling to him.

Because wasn’t that always how it went, in this family? Everyone _always_ loved Dante more, because he was the fun one, who could charm his way out of responsibilities with a smile and a jest. But Vergil… Vergil had a duty, and it wasn’t to make Nero laugh, it was to protect him. It was better if Dante made him laugh, as long as Nero learned to obey Vergil.

“It’s… uncle.” He cursed inwardly the tightness in his voice, inhaled deeply to wrestle himself back under control, and added, “It’s uncle in Italian.”

“Zio Dante!” Nero exclaimed, flopping down on Dante’s head, and despite all his frustration, Vergil smiled and found himself gliding closer. It felt like for a moment, the cleaning and cooking and fretting could wait, and maybe he could just hold Nero, too, and watch him smile.

Except the smile vanished as he neared. Nero straightened--back straight, chin up, fire in his clear blue eyes--and he flung a hand out, palm outward. “Cease!”

Vergil stopped dead, breathless, his head buzzing as Dante burst into a laugh. He picked the boy off his shoulders and set him down. “Looks like the kid’s picking up on your vocabulary, brother.”

“Evidently.”

Nero stayed at Dante’s feet, unmoving, his eyes never leaving Vergil. One hand tight around his uncle’s pants, he whispered, “Amo naked.”

Was that all? Was _that_ why he’d told Vergil to back off? Vergil snapped his eyes shut, forcing back the waves of frustration, willing himself to stay calm. “As long as you keep the diaper on, little monster. Pannolino on.”

Nero _squealed_ , and then he ran back to the bedroom, and they could both hear him clamber onto the bed, where he must have left his marker. Vergil closed his eyes and tried to convince himself the diaper was a victory, that he hadn’t given in, even though he’d had to force the diaper on while Nero was drowsy from sleep.

“He’s easy enough to please,” Dante commented, and Vergil’s eyes snapped open just so he could glare at him properly.

“If only.” Nero was always easier after a nap, but it wouldn’t last long. Still, this was his opportunity to clear away some chores, especially considering he was somewhat rested himself, at least within the new parameters he’d learned to attribute to the word. “Do as you please, Dante, but I must clean and cook.”

“Right-o. Let me start with your gifts, then.” He crouched next to his ridiculously big pouch and reached into it.

“You said--”

“It’s kinda both of you,” Dante cut off, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder.

He retrieved a pile of a dozen different pots and containers of all sorts, all filled with a ton of food. Dante handed it over, and it shifted in a precarious balance, threatening to topple. Vergil made absolutely no move to take it, could only stare at the week’s worth of food before him.

“That’s…”

“I asked Lady for advice--”

“You _what_?” Vergil snapped. He didn’t need anyone to know he had a child, especially not her. She was liable to decide he was a threat to Nero and come knocking with that ridiculous rocket launcher.

“Relax, I didn’t tell her about Nero. I asked what she’d do, if she had to prepare to survive weeks while living with a powerful demonic artifact that’d drain all her energy and time, and she’s convinced I’m in way over my head in trouble again, but that was her answer. Food.”

Vergil forced tension out of his shoulders. Dante’s hypothetical description was a surprisingly accurate approximation of his life these days, and if he saved on cooking every now and then, he would also be diminishing the amount of dishes, leaving him more time for other tasks. He might manage to go out with Nero and buy clothes the boy actually liked and would put on without throwing a tantrum every time.

“Take them, Vergil,” Dante insisted when he still hadn’t moved, and he shoved the pile in Vergil’s chest and let go, forcing him to hold it or watch it tumble down.

Vergil could feel the warmth creeping up his cheeks. He cleared his throat and looked away from Dante, away from the boxes and the kindness. “I’m questioning whether any of it is edible at all, if you cooked it.”

Dante laughed. “Good thing I didn’t, then. It’s all store bought. I don’t even know what half of them are, but I figured if the name sounded pretentious, it’d be up your alley.”

Vergil rolled his eyes and very slowly brought the pile to his overcrowded counter and found a corner for it. It felt like Dante’s eyes burned his back with every step and Vergil hated it, hated that he needed this help. He should have been able to manage it, should have thought of freezing extra food for later on his own, should have found a way to get ahead of the endless chores. Instead he had fallen a little more behind every day, losing control of his house, and Nero and his own sleep. Dante swooping in with his food and gifts and smiles like he could fix it left him with the familiar, acrid taste of humiliation and defeat.

He couldn’t accept that. Not again. Even if he paid for it in hours upon hours of lost sleep.

Vergil lifted his chin and set his hand at his hip, where the Yamato normally stayed, steeling himself. “I’m afraid--”

“Fuck that bullshit, Vergil,” Dante cut off.

Vergil whirled around, scowling. “Stop swearing!”

He found the Rebellion lowered at him, and Dante glaring without the hint of a smile. He did, at least, lower his tone. “I will kick your ass to Hell and back before I let you say no, you prideful prick. This place is dirtier than mine and you’ve _melted_ in the week since you knocked on my door. You say you have a duty to this kid? Tell me how you’re supposed to protect anyone in this state!”

Maybe Dante needed a demonstration. Vergil could feel the energy pulsing within, waiting to be released, eager for a chance at revenge. Dante’s eyes narrowed; no doubt he sensed it, too, and his own power swirled up.

“Cibo!”

Nero’s exclamation cut through the tension, and he ran past Dante and the Rebellion without a second glance at the big sword, coming up to the counter. With his hand outstretched, he could reach the bottom of the pile of boxes, and Vergil stopped his hand before he pushed it all to the ground.

“Soon, yes,” he promised. His own stomach responded with a low grumble. He’d barely eaten in the last days, snatching bits here and there, telling himself he’d survived on less before, but now that a whole pile of meals stood before him… _Dante’s meals_ , he reminded himself, before pushing the thought away. He would try it with Dante’s help, just this once. Just to get himself sorted. Vergil looked down at Nero, at his slight pout heralding another crisis, and sighed.

“Why… why don’t you play with your zio while I get this ready?”

Nero’s slight frown increased, sending little tugs of fear through Vergil. Here it was, the tantrum was coming. But instead, the child asked, “Gioco con… Dante?”

“Yes. Exactly, Nero.” It’d keep him out of the kitchen, at least. “He has gifts. Er… regali.”

Nero’s eyes widened and he pointed at himself, the unvoiced question obvious. When Vergil nodded, he squealed again, and he was off, running right back into Dante’s arms with a bright “Zio Dante!”. Dante dropped the Rebellion to catch him, and he spun the boy around, drawing another full blown laughter out of him. Vergil’s shoulders dropped in defeat, and he forced his attention back to the tasks at hand: to the meal to warm up, the dishes to wash, and the house to clean up--all while his dear brother enjoyed playtime with his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Vergil's level of italian is... mine. LOL so he's not exactly good, and I am purposefully not correcting my own mistakeS. XD
> 
> BUT HEY, Dante is here to the rescue!!


	3. Spardaghetti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante plays with Nero all afternoon and stays until dinner, giving birth to a new tradition: Spardaghetti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maintenance update!! As you can see, there are now 6 chapters to this. They kinda go in two parts, and this is the end of the first part; then we have three more chapters a little down the line, but closely tied to this. After that I'll be placing new fic as part of a series, since they're separate enough that they can be read each on their own. :)

Dante expected awkward hours of trying to get Vergil out of his mind, to relax the itch to grab the Rebellion and keep on guard, ready for an attack. That was just what they did: they fought. Kids’ brawls when they’d been young and the universe hadn’t fucked both of them over several times; deadly battles with the fate of the world hanging on the issue since then. And Dante won, of course--that was also just what they did. They fought, and Vergil lost, and he tried again, because he just couldn’t accept the truth.

So it was just _weird_ , that he didn’t have the Yamato at his side (like, what, “oopsie, I forgot the blade around which I’ve forged my entire existence and sense of identity”? As if.) It didn’t jive, and part of Dante just wanted to go back to beating Vergil over and over, and a part of him loved this new thing, because maybe (just maybe) Vergil would put behind his fucking obsession with power once and for all.

As it turned out, Nero made it easy to forget Vergil’s presence and the menace Dante subconsciously attached to it. There wasn’t an ounce of cruelty in the kid, and while he’d seemed entirely puzzled by the concept of toys at first, Dante had quickly learned his second word of Italian: giocare. Judging by Vergil’s constant eyerolls, he said it all wrong, but it didn’t matter. Nero got the point, and Nero didn’t judge. With some prodding, he eventually played with the building blocks, piling them on and staring at the results in intense concentration, squinting hard as if that could make them move. At first he often stopped to glance at Vergil, as if he expected to be scolded by him. And because Nero building little towers in silence quickly grew _boring_ (the kid was cute, but Dante’s attention could only take so much), Dante also returned to watching Vergil.

And, fuck, but he looked completely different in the setting sunlight, his no-doubt-once-perfectly-ironed white shirt ruined by wrinkles and stains, the sleeves rolled up unceremoniously to his elbows as he picked up dishes and shoved them in the sink, drowning them in soapy water (he had made neat piles of plates and bowls by the sink, and Dante couldn't help but point it out to Nero in whispers). And it wasn't just the clothes, his posture was all wrong too, like he’d forgotten to hold himself stuck-up-straight, to glare at everything he laid eyes on, and to move like the very space he inhabited belonged to him (kinda ironic, since the flat was his). He was just… so damn human, and domestic, and Dante was a hundred percent certain saying so would get him kicked out till the end of time. It'd be _fun_ to rub it in (and so fucking deserved), but he’d barely gotten his foot in the door, and Nero would pay the most for any fight between them.

Too bad, that. Vergil was too much fun to annoy. Next time (and he’d make sure there'd be one, Vergil's pride be damned), Dante would need to start pushing those buttons again, see how much he could get away with. Right now, Dante just needed to find a way to keep the kid busy while his brother cleaned the whole-ass mess his life had turned into. Preferably doing something that was amusing to the both of them. He turned back to Nero as the kid pushed two green blocks together and grinned.

“Yo, kid, you wanna fight?” he asked.

Vergil whirled around instantly, sending a trail of dirty water flying. “Dante!”

“Just a game, relax!” he said, raising empty palms. “Fighting’s good for the soul and the stomach.”

That earned him a withering glare, but he could tell Vergil’s gears were turning by the way his little dish mop drooped. “I want all of your weapons at the door,” he said. “My son is not brawling around the Rebellion, or any of your other fancy toys.”

That was… surprisingly reasonable. Dante reached for the Rebellion and set it on the table, then removed his coat and flung it on the ground. He piled every weapon he’d brought with him into it, setting down Ebony and Ivory second-to-last, then placing his sword above. Once his bundle was finished, he closed it by tying the sleeves of his coat and pushed it farther away. When Dante turned back to Vergil, he found him by Nero’s side, whispering in halted italian. Somewhere in there, he caught _zio_ again, but also _visaggio_ , and a bunch of weird sounds. Nero snatched his faithful marker up (that, really, should’ve been a sign) and Vergil straightened back up. The briefest smile flicked on his lips.

“Adesso, Nero!”

The kid was off, springing from his chair and over the table (Vergil flinched at that), and from there he leaped at him, marker out, his expression so serious Dante thought he meant to poke one of his eyes out. So he laughed, and let Nero draw a thick black line across his cheek, crying out in fake hurt even as he caught the tiny, wiry body, and let both of them fall to the ground.

They started fighting, then, but Dante couldn’t for the life of him tell how long it lasted.

He’d never realized how much fun kids could be until he had a little white-haired punk straddling him in the middle of the living room, black marker in hand and determined to draw on his bare chest. Nero was quick and devious (a little too much like his father, really), and he’d landed several black marks on Dante’s arms, along with a few dots on the chest proper. Once, Dante had stolen the marker and replied with a quick happy face on Nero’s cheeks, but Vergil had snapped at him from across the room, so now he kept his ripostes to long bouts of tickling. Those were better, anyway, because they yielded long strings of hiccup-y laughter and little “Noooo, ziooooo, noooo!” that left his heart studded in pure joy.

Vergil had passed them several times, often warping right above, picking up strewn clothes and books, then vanishing in his washroom. Once, he stopped to watch, and Dante could almost imagine dark boots over his feet, could hear the rain splattering atop the Temen-ni-gru as Vergil closed in, the Rebellion in hand, to finish him off. The cold tip of a black marker hit his chest, and Dante gasped, phantom pain overlaying Nero's victorious cry. He pushed the memories to focus on the boy over him, brandishing his pen with a grin, and launched into another tickle attack, grounding himself in Nero's soft protests. He had a nephew, a perfect little Sparda, and they weren't gonna fight anymore. The past could stay there, for all he cared.

(But then, of course, Vergil had to drag it back.)

“All right, you fools, cibo is ready!”

Vergil’s nasal voice was nothing like Sparda’s deep baritone, but the inflexion of ‘all right, you fools’ was perfectly identical, a striking reminder of their father calling them back when they kept playing late outside instead of returning for dinner. Dante scrambled to his feet, almost throwing Nero off him, and stared at Vergil, hovering near the table with a bowl of spaghetti in his hands, just as stunned as him.

“Did you just--”

Vergil scowled. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t.”

He probably shouldn’t, but it was too weird (if one could call deep claws of nostalgia and pain flaring back to life "weird", anyway) and Dante knew only one way to deal with those particular feelings. “Why not? That’s a much healthier way to want to be Sparda, brother.”

Vergil slammed the bowl on the table. “It was a mistake, and if you want to eat here, you’ll let it go and put a shirt on.”

“You’re no fun,” Dante protested. He also had no shirt with him, but if Vergil thought that’d get him to leave, he was sorely underestimating Dante (again). While his brother picked up Nero and set him on the newly-cleaned counter, Dante strode directly into the bedroom. He’d only intended to pick up a random shirt to pull over his head, but when he spotted Vergil’s silver-buttoned blue coat, thrown across a valet, his smirk widened. “Guess I’ll borrow something from you, bro!”

Vergil gave no reply, and Dante could hear him argue in a low mix of italian and english with Nero, about pants and shirts and nakedness. Well, that wasn’t a no! He scoured the drawers for a black sleeveless top, and when he found none, he snatched up the one laying on the bed (it didn’t look that dirty, anyway) and put it on. Then he snapped up the three-tailed blue coat and slipped it on, his grin widening as he turned to the mirror. It had _style_ , he could give Vergil that, but it wasn’t the same without the boots and the Yamato. The latter, Dante noted, just happened to be leaning against the wall, in a corner.

Vergil would kill him.

Worth it, though.

In two long strides, Dante had grabbed the Yamato and tied it around his hips. He returned to the mirror, swept his hair back (not that it really held there), and tried to scowl and sneer at himself, but the striking resemblance gave him fits of giggles and he couldn’t hold it. Time to show off his dinner outfit. Dante strode out of the bedroom, chin snobbishly high, his urge to grin contained into a tiny smirk.

“So, how do I look?”

Cold fury washed over the room the moment Vergil’s gaze snapped to him. To Dante’s disappointment, his brother didn’t make a face, not even a scowl. His expression just froze there, unreadable, and the air crackled with energy. The outline of Vergil’s body shimmered, and he vanished, leaving only his distorted voice as answer.

“Like scum.”

A tremendous burst of power followed, sending Dante’s heart racing and his demon hunter instincts screaming. He could feel the distortion in time, could almost register Vergil’s movements within it (would have, if he bothered to pull on his own power, but surely Vergil didn’t mean to kill him, not over this?). Then time returned, a rubber band snapping back to its normal length, and Dante felt the hard kick at his legs, the tug as Vergil drew the Yamato from its sheath, and the very thin prickling of it at his chest, over Nero’s marker, as Dante hit the ground hard. Vergil stood over him, his exhausted pant almost imperceptible, blue eyes burning with fury.

Dante smirked at him. He was _so_ easy to rile. “Scum? Don’t be so hard on yourself, Vergil.”

“Remove it, Dante!”

Under all that icy demand, Dante caught of a whiff of anguish. The slip in self-control startled him, and he belatedly noticed Vergil was shaking, almost imperceptibly so, but the slight tremor echoed down the Yamato and its tip, still pressed over Dante’s chest. It wasn’t the coat, bothering Vergil. Slowly, he untied the Yamato’s scabbard from his side and threw it upward. Vergil snapped it up, returned the Yamato to it with a flourish, then glared at his brother.

“The Yamato is _mine_. You’re not me. You’ll never be me, and you’ll _never_ replace me.”

Wow, those were some deep ass insecurities there. No way Dante was engaging with that. “Wouldn’t dream of it, brother.” He made an effort to keep the mockery out of his tone, but from the slight twitch of Vergil’s hand around the Yamato’s guard, that wasn’t entirely successful. “T’was just a joke, relax.”

“Is nothing sacred to you, Dante? Wasn’t today--” Vergil stopped himself, his head turning to Nero. The kid stared at them from his seat on the counter, eyes wide, his smile gone. Vergil’s shoulders rose and fell slowly. “I made spaghetti.”

He set the Yamato on the counter, each movement deliberate, controlled. Nero reached for it, and as his small hands set on the scabbard’s lacquered wood, Dante caught hints of the blade’s blue shine in the diminishing light. _Wasn’t today--_ indeed. Dante didn’t have words for the strangeness of it either, but he regretted ruining it for a dumb joke (well… almost--it was still kinda hilarious). With a sigh, he pushed himself up and slid out of the blue coat, keeping only the sleeveless black shirt.

“All right, Vergil.” He picked up the coat and flung it on a nearby sofa, just so it wouldn’t stay on the ground. “Let’s have a big, nice, family dinner.”

 

####

 

Vergil stared at his plate of spaghetti, utterly exhausted and unable to muster the appetite to actually eat any of it. His skull buzzed from the burst of power earlier, his heart ached from Nero absolutely insisting he wanted to wear nothing but red, and his soul hurt from Dante’s easy mimicry, the Yamato at his waist, like it was all props to him, another game to play. It had struck too hard, too deep, and for a moment, as he snapped time to a stop around himself, he’d imagined the necessary steps to retrieve his sword and slice Dante into ribbons--cut him down while he preened, unguarded, and mocked everything Vergil had built his life around.

A minuscule, confused “zio?” reached his ears, right at the edge of time and space, and the memory of Nero’s bright laughter all afternoon shattered his murderous intent.

He’d still smashed Dante to the floor, stealing the Yamato proper and forcing him to return the scabbard, and how the three of them were supposed to simply eat after this was beyond him. Vergil did not have the emotional fortitude for Dante’s foolishness.

Dante, by comparison, did not seem overly concerned with the current mood, or anything at all. He scarfed down his spaghetti, barely spinning it around his fork before shoving in entire mouthfuls and slurping up whatever hung out. He was making a disgusting amount of noise, and when he wiped his mouth with his hand, Vergil almost snapped at him to have some manners. Before he could tell Dante he needed to set an example, however, his brother had set down his fork and frowned at Nero.

“Not hungry, kid?”

For the first time since he’d sat at the table, aiming to focus on his own plate and get himself under control, Vergil glanced at his son. Nero held his fork in a tiny fist and was half-stabbing the spaghetti before rattling it around. He’d managed to put half his plate on the table and seemed intent on doing the same with the second half without even attempting to get it to his mouth first. His eyes flicked up at Dante’s voice, but he didn’t respond.

“Of course he’s hungry,” Vergil said, his voice clipped. He’d asked for food earlier, and came running as soon as Vergil called. He’d even accepted to get dressed so he could eat. Hunger wasn’t an issue--it never really was, with Nero. Vergil set his own fork down. “Devi mangiare, Nero.”

Nero huffed and threw his fork down. “No.”

This was _nothing_ , Vergil told himself, just one more refusal, one more of his endless arguments with Nero. Yet the word lanced through him, chipping at his eroded patience, and he snapped back. “Nero!”

“Calm down, Vergil. He’s--”

“Stay out of it, Dante!”

He could feel himself trembling again and he hated how fragile he felt, how near breaking in front of the two people he needed to get respect from. Nero still wouldn’t look at him, and Dante rolled his eyes, and Vergil felt both attitudes like a vice inside of him, tightening. He would not let either win, not tonight, not over some stupid spaghetti.

“Nero. È il cibo. Mangi.”

Slowly, in a sullen silence Vergil hoped meant good news, Nero reached towards his plate… and grabbed a fistful of spaghetti.

“La forchetta, Nero!”

The child exploded, a long string of italian pouring out of his mouth, too fast for Vergil to catch. He screamed increasingly loudly, building into a full blown tantrum, which only made the string of words harder to understand. Nero scooped the fork up again, still holding it like he wanted to stab someone with it, and he slammed the teeth on the table hard. And still the italian came out, more words than he’d ever cared to say, pouring on and on as he obviously tried to hold back tears and Vergil scrambled to catch one word of it all, feeling desperately close to shattering too.

“Vergil…” Dante started, almost hesitantly.

“I said _stay out of it_!”

“No!” Dante rose, but when he spoke he kept his voice down. “Look at his face. You’re making the same face, both of you. You’re making that stupid ‘I don’t understand but I’m too prideful to say and I refuse to cry over it' face. _Look._ ”

“I don’t have such a face,” Vergil countered, but there was no bite in it, because damnit, he probably did and Dante would know. He turned to Nero, wondering what that looked like, and found a fistful of spaghetti flying at him.

Vergil’s reflex snapped into action and he scooped his plate up, using it to smoothly catch the spaghetti before it splattered on his face without dropping any of his. Nero’s chair rattled and clang to the ground as Vergil intercepted the food, but he set down the plate and caught the running child right as he passed, lifting him off the ground.

Nero fought him immediately, pushing against Vergil with arms and legs, pounding on his shoulders and kicking, screaming “lasciami” over and over--and that word, Vergil could understand well enough. But if Dante was right… What was confusing Nero? The fork? He’d been holding it all wrong, using it to shove food around the plate instead of in his mouth… Maybe… maybe it was that simple, and if that was the case, then Vergil didn’t want to give up just yet. He had to _try_ to get to Nero.

“Nero, shhh,” he said, and the firm softness of his voice surprised him. Vergil caught the boy’s arms and pinned them, stilling him for a brief moment. “Listen, I--” No. Italian. Right. Shit, he had no idea what that was in italian, had completely forgotten. “Listen,” he said again, touching Nero’s ears. “Listen, all right?”

Tear-filled eyes met his, and Nero stopped struggling in his arms. Slowly, Vergil lowered him to the ground, crouching down with him. He still held the tiny arms, but Nero made no move to bolt.

“Ascolta,” Nero said instead, his young voice thick. He touched the same ear Vergil had, and repeated slowly, “Listen.”

“Yes. Ascolta.” He smiled despite his exhaustion and the growing despair crawling under it. That was just one word, but had he ever gotten that much before in the middle of a tantrum? Now he just needed to communicate… everything else. _Keep it simple._ Straight to the fork. “If you want, I can… io posso… insegnare? La forchetta. Insegnare como usare la forchetta.”

Nero stared at him for several impossible seconds, and as he awaited an answer, it felt to Vergil like time had stopped again, but he no longer had any control over it and could only wait in tortured uncertainty for it to flow once more.

The floodgates opened, and Nero started crying, big ugly sobs that had little to do with his usual tantrums. Vergil cringed and released his arm, then very tentatively reached for the child’s shoulder, half-convinced it’d trigger another crisis.

“Come here, little monster,” he whispered as he touched him, and instead of screaming, Nero brutally threw himself into his chest. Vergil froze, completely unprepared for it, and risked a glance at Dante. His brother rolled his eyes and mimed a hug, and Vergil sneered back, but he closed his arms around Nero and lifted him back up. When Nero leaned closer in, he felt the wetness of his tears against his neck. “There’s no need to cry, Nero.”

That, of course, did very little to stop the child, but it helped Vergil feel more grounded. He returned to his chair and settled down on it, still holding Nero on his lap, then reached across the table for the dessert fork he’d given him earlier. Dante remained blessedly silent--Vergil didn’t think he could handle any form of mockery or smugness at being right. Nero’s sobs and sniffles eventually subsided, and Vergil helped him get the right grip on his small fork.

It baffled him still, that this had been an issue. Nero had all the dexterity and coordination he needed to eat with a fork, and it’d never crossed Vergil’s mind he might not know how or be able to figure it out on his own. Looking back, he _had_ fed him himself for the two last weeks, convinced Nero would make an even bigger mess of things if he didn’t. And if Nero had been upset by his fight with Dante… Vergil sighed. Children were so complicated, and he had the increasing certitude that whoever had taken care of Nero before had had no interest in the child’s actual growth.

“All right, Nero,” he said. “Ready?”

Nero must have caught his meaning from the tone, because he replied with a determined “Pronto.”

Vergil wrapped his much larger hand around his son’s, securing Nero’s grip on the small fork, and guided him through the movement. It felt absolutely foolish, and once he noticed Dante was watching them with an absolutely mesmerized smile, Vergil felt his cheeks burned and almost stopped. He scolded himself--Dante didn’t matter here, nor did any subsequent mocking this might lead to. He focused on Nero, on getting the fork in the spaghetti, and then the spaghetti in his mouth, rinse and repeat, and soon Nero wasn’t even pausing to swallow before he pulled at the fork to try again.

“Slow down, little monster, or you’ll choke.”

“You were right,” Dante said, slowly, casually, as if testing the waters on whether or not he was allowed to speak at all. “He’s hungry.”

“He’s _always_ hungry.” He held back Nero’s small arm, forcing him to slow down, and looked up at Dante. That comment had been a peace offer. There would be no apologies between them, but perhaps Vergil could work with this. “So. We have a confused-but-prideful face. The same one?”

How could that be possible, when Nero was all cheeks and roundness, and he was bones and angles? But Dante casually nodded, scarfed down more food, and replied with his mouth full. “All in the way your nose scrunches up, and your eyebrows go like this, and your eyes get that angry distant focus.”

Vergil could feel the slow expansion of warmth in his chest. Had Nero always made that face, or had he picked it up over the last two weeks? But also, he really had no desire to see so much of what went on inside Dante’s mouth, and if Nero picked up expressions, then he would certainly pick up bad manners.

“Dante,” he said, trying to keep the aggression out of his voice in case Nero was trying to follow their conversation. “Table manners.”

“Hmf!” Dante set a hand over his mouth, but he didn’t swallow before he said, “Sorry.”

Vergil rolled his eyes, but before he could further comment on Dante’s terrible etiquette, Nero pulled on his sleeve to get his attention. Vergil looked down, and puffy blue eyes met his.

“Solo?” Nero asked.

Vergil released the small hand, setting his on Nero’s tiny shoulder instead, and tried to keep his worry from mounting at the possibility his son might fail, and how he’d react. It’d be fine. Vergil had barely directed Nero’s last movements, and holding a fork really wasn’t that hard. Nero learned fast, had all the dexterity… Fine. Really. “Of course.”

“You get that spaghetti, buddy!” Dante cheered.

And Nero did. Very slowly at first, dropping a third of it on the table, spreading another third on his face and clothes, and eating most of the rest. He grew more self-assured with every movement, however, dropping less and less, and soon enough Vergil had picked his own fork and started eating too. Dante was already well into his second serving, and at some point he started pointing out Nero’s building cubes and made Vergil ask what the colours name were, and translate back and forth. They both got scolded several times for speaking with food in their mouths, and by the end of the meal Nero could not only name new colours in English, but he'd learned ‘mouth’, ‘speak’, and ‘sorry’ too.

He was also drooping with sleep, and Vergil had to catch him from face-planting in the plate, and dirtying himself even more.

“Well, it’s bedtime,” he declared, gathering Nero's tired body in his arms. His gaze slid to Dante, leaning back in the chair, exceedingly relaxed. “Fun part is over now, I'm afraid. Nothing left but cleaning--Nero, the dishes, the clothes… Feel free to let yourself out.”

It's not like Dante cared about these parts. He’d come to have fun, and Vergil knew better than to expect more of him. In a way, it was better like this. It gave him time alone with Nero and a role Dante could never fill.

“You sure you don’t want help?” Dante asked, pushing himself on the back legs of his chair. “I got no plans for tonight.”

“I’m sure.”

If he was being honest, he was certain he no longer needed it because Dante had managed to exhaust Nero _and_ helped him prevent a tantrum from becoming another case of Nero squirrelling himself away in a corner of the house to cry. But Dante’s role in this was over, and after his stunt with the Yamato, Vergil wanted time away, and a space to exist where he wouldn’t constantly measure himself to Dante.

“All right, brother,” he said, landing the chair on all four legs and rising. Dante stretched, the movement lazy and graceful, like a cat who’d just found a warm spot of sunlight. He pulled the black sleeveless shirt off and set it on the chair’s back. “I’ll gather my toys and see you around.”

Nero shifted in Vergil’s arms, blue eyes fluttering open. “Zio Dante?”

“He’s leaving,” Vergil whispered. “Partire.”

Nero pushed himself off enough to twist his little body around and wave goodbye. “Ciao.”

Dante grinned, set two fingers at his temple, and saluted him. “Adios, kid. Hasta la vista.”

“That’s Spanish, Dante.”

Dante burst out laughing and shrugged, before reaching for the bundle created by the red coat. He re-equipped his Devil Arms one by one under the silent gaze of his family, then took another step towards the door.

“Well. That was certainly something, wasn’t it?” Dante spread his arms, took another casual stride backward. Very slowly making his way to the exit, his eyes searching Vergil while he kept that usual smirk plastered on his face.

“It was,” Vergil said, confused about his brother’s attitude.

When Dante finally reached the door, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. He was turning the knob when it finally clicked within Vergil what, exactly, Dante wanted to hear.

“Provided you _never_ touch the Yamato again…” Vergil started, and his voice cracked, the hurt surging back unbidden, too raw to ignore. “You-you can come back.”

A big fat grin spread across Dante's face. “Cool.” He paused, clearly out of words, and Vergil wondered what their world was coming to, if Dante didn't have a comeback ready. “He's a cool kid.”

“He's an endless source of tantrums,” Vergil corrected, but he held Nero a little tighter. For the first time since he'd rescued him, he felt like he might get through this. “Now go. Bedtime routine is easier when he's partly awake still.”

Calling it a routine was an exaggeration, but Dante didn’t need to know. His brother waved goodbye, then stomped out of the door, gear clinking and coat flapping. Vergil stared at the door for a time, weary from too many thoughts and feelings colliding into a single day, uncertain still about having Dante in his life like this, but Nero was growing heavy in his arms and they had much to do. Vergil turned his back to it; there would be time for feelings once his life stopped turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who was like "Dante can't help but push Vergil's buttons" : you were right HAHA he went all in. But hey!! they're getting somewhere still!
> 
> "That's Spanish, Dante." might still be one of my favourite lines ever written, too. XD


	4. Missed Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil and Dante are still slowly finding their ways around one another--until the day Dante fails to show up at a Spardaghetti, forcing his brother to investigate, toddler in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't help but mess around with the boys when it's going too well. ;) I'm definitely sliding in and out of Domestic and Demon stuff with this fic (and series as a whole, tbh), and hopefully they're both equally fun for everyone. ^^

As loathe as he was to admit it, Vergil’s life became a hundred times easier after Dante’s gifts. Sometimes he managed to give Nero a toy and the child would play by himself, smashing construction blocks together or squishing the play-doh. His favourite were the finger crayons, even though he didn’t put them on his fingers proper half the time, and Vergil had quickly discovered that if he provided blank papers to Nero, he could have a whole hour of peace while the child drew on them--enough for a significant dent in the chores that kept piling up.

The first time Nero had come running with a drawing, clearly offering it to him, Vergil hadn’t known what to do with it, and he’d had his arms full of dirty clothes. He’d set it down on the nearest surface with a distracted thank you, repeated it in italian when he’d spotted the pout, then stopped dead as Nero’s face had continued to scrunch up in obvious disappointment. Vergil had tensed, sensing the tantrum incoming, and quickly dumped the entire pile of clothes to the ground. So much for chores. 

“What is it, Nero?” he’d asked, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice, and Nero hadn’t answered, just looked towards his drawing again. So Vergil had picked it back up, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with the mess of lines and circles. Except… it did have a sphere-ish shape, with tons of dots inside, and Blake’s verses had come to his mind, unbidden.

“ _To see a World in a Grain of Sand_ ,” he’d recited, and even though there had been no chance Nero had meant it this way, he’d taken the child’s hand and they’d written the quote on it. Nero had seemed to enjoy that, and he’d kept bringing Vergil more drawings, so Vergil had kept writing William Blake quotes on them, and now the drawings covered the lower half of his walls, hiding the ugly black markers lines left by Nero early on. It wasn’t pretty, but it was better, and Nero beamed every time Vergil placed a new drawing.

And that… that was enough for Vergil to keep doing it, even if it made him feel like his walls were a mess, and even if Dante made a point of reciting each quote loudly and all wrong whenever he visited.

That was the cost of the positive changes in Vergil’s life: Spardaghetti became a tradition. Every week, Dante dropped by his flat early in the afternoon, took Nero out of Vergil’s arms for a few hours, and stayed for dinner. It was _necessary_ , allowed Vergil time to clean the flat thoroughly and buy groceries and other necessities for the week, but it was a complete drain on his energy.

Dante was irremediably childish. He had no manners, talked back all the time, did nothing but play and eat, and some days he created more chaos than Vergil managed to clean. But he made Nero _so happy_. The child screamed with joy when Dante opened the door and abandoned everything to jump in his uncle’s arms with an undiluted “Zio Dante!!” that sent stabs of intense jealousy through Vergil. 

Nero never called to him like that--not by name, real or invented, and certainly not through any variation of father, in any language. He either screamed whatever he needed at the top of his lungs and got scolded for it, or he pulled on Vergil’s clothes until he received the attention he wanted.

Dante’s visits reminded Vergil that while he might receive the occasional smiles and mumbled thank yous, his brother got deep, unabashed love--big grins, fits of giggles, and endless joy. It all just seemed so easy for him, all laughs and no tantrums, and no amount of reminding himself Dante had no concept of discipline and would utterly fail as a caretaker removed the acrid bitterness of knowing Nero loved him more and always would.

He bit down on it, eating his spaghetti in near silence while Nero and Dante played silly games over the table, speaking almost only to scold them both on their manners, which only served to make Dante roll his eyes and turn Nero sullen again.

And then, one day, Dante didn’t show up at all. 

Vergil stared at his neat piles of dirty dishes, at the vacuum and mop waiting in a corner, at the list of tasks he’d made for himself and stuck to the fridge, all waiting for the opportunity for him to stop watching Nero from the corner of his eye and lose himself to the cleaning, then he turned to the clock. 

1 pm, and still no Dante. Vergil tried to start without him, but Nero kept pulling at his legs, offering building blocks to him and getting angry if Vergil ignored him. So he sat down, handing over blocks to Nero while keeping an eye on the clock.

2 pm, and still no Dante. Nero had long grown bored with the blocks, and when Vergil had handed him the finger crayons, he’d flung them across the room. Vergil scolded him, because he couldn’t have Nero throwing things around the house and breaking his toys, and they fought again. Nero locked himself in the bathroom, and Vergil found himself sitting on the other side of the door, praying his little monster wouldn’t break the bath or eat soap or somehow climb to his razor. 

3 pm, and still no Dante. Nero no longer cried on the other side of the door. The silence felt ominous, failure weighing heavy on Vergil’s shoulders. He’d retrieved his Blake’s collection, figuring it might serve for inspiration for later, even though it felt like Nero would never leave the bathroom and never draw again. Vergil’s eyes glazed over the verses, returning to the clock more often than not.

4 pm, and still no Dante. Now he’d had enough. He’d heard Nero shuffle inside a few times, no doubt tired of being trapped but too prideful to come out. Well, they were going out soon, both of them. Vergil stalked through the house, grabbing the play-doh, a child’s book, several diapers and a change of clothes, just in case. He shoved everything in a bag, slung it over his shoulder, then knocked on the bathroom’s door.

“Nero? Do you want to see Zio Dante?”

Vergil didn’t bother with italian. Over the last few weeks, Nero had picked up enough vocabulary to understand the gist of a lot of English, unless he was particularly upset. The lock turned, and Nero peeked out.

“Zio Dante?” he repeated, his eyes searching the room.

A wave of frustration rose through Vergil; of course his son would exit the bathroom if it meant he could play with Dante. He’d do _anything_ for him. “I’m afraid he’s not here,” he said, his voice clipped. He knelt, and extended an arm. “But if you come with me, Nero, we can go find him and remind him of his responsibilities.”

Nero clasped his tiny hands within Vergil’s, and he lifted his son up, bringing him all the way to the entrance, where they could put tiny shoes on and prepare to cross the city.

5 pm, and still no Dante, but Vergil refused to let that stand.

 

###

 

Fuck, but Dante wasn’t used to hurting for so long. Pain was supposed to be the sort of thing that came in short, brutal burst, immediately wiped away by his demonic healing (the physical type of pain, at any rate). It had no right to sink into his legs like that, to just pin him to the sofa and return screaming if he tried to take more than a few steps. What the ever loving hell even _was_ that demon? (Or had been. It was a pile of ash now, reward for that long cut it’d slashed along Dante’s legs while he’d been dealing with other compatriots). Dante groaned, stretching his hands to reach the top of his pile of pizza boxes, flicking the lid open, and grabbing himself a slice. Pizza had long gone cold (how long had he even been on this damn couch, stringing naps together in the hope one would get him back in shape?) but pizza was always good, so he crammed it into his mouth.

He was making a valiant attempt at swallowing it without sitting up when someone hammered at his door. Dante stared at it, huffed, then went back to swallowing. The pounding continued for a good five minutes through which Dante simply went through another pizza slice. He was in no state for guests, anyway, and they’d scram eventually.

Then a much smaller pounding hit his door, the kind made with tiny fists, and it was followed by a sing-song but worried “Zio Dante?”

Dante jolted awake, swinging his legs to the ground and triggering an intense flare of pain from them. He hissed and swore (hopefully Vergil hadn’t heard that; he’d get scolded again) and accidentally toppled the pile of pizza boxes (Vergil would definitely have heard that).

“Open, Dante!” his brother snapped from the other side of the door, soaking his name with nothing but cold fury. 

What was Vergil angry about _this time?_ It seemed like every week there was something new Dante wasn’t doing right, some shiny new excuse to scold him and demonstrate how he was a bad example for Nero. Spardaghetti night was both his favourite (thanks to Nero) and most exhausting (thanks to Vergil) time of the week, and Dante didn’t think he could take two in a row. Especially with how hard getting to Vergil’s place with his poisoned legs promised to be.

“Open yourself,” he mumbled, flopping back down in the couch.

Vergil didn’t need to be told twice. He flung the door open, striding in with his cute kid in one arm and a big bag slung over his shoulder. He stopped two steps inside, nose curling in disgust as he took in the shop’s state (it wasn’t any worse than last time he’d been here! Why was he surprised?). Icy eyes snapped to Dante and his jaw worked, an obvious effort in self-control.

“Nero has been expecting you all day,” he said, enunciating each word very slowly, as if convinced their meaning would not otherwise sink in. And, honestly, it did take a moment. Dante’s pain-addled brain was not up to the implication here.

“Fix the lil’ bud’s internal clock, then,” he said, getting an arm under himself to prop himself up. “That’s tomorrow.”

Vergil lifted his chin and glared at him. He was rippling with tension, clutching Nero so hard that Dante suspected if it hadn’t been for the kid, he’d have long stabbed him in the chest again. “Fix _yours_ , brother. It was six hours ago.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Had he really napped that much (he probably had)? No wonder Vergil was so pissed! It didn't take a big brain to understand how essential that free afternoon had become to his routine. 

"Ugh, sorry, I--"

"I don't care about your excuses," Vergil cut in. Before he could add more, Nero started squirming in his arms, demanding to be put down. He received a sharp "Un momento, Nero." before Vergil turned back to him. "You have responsibilities now, Dante, and I am aware it is a difficult word for your mind to wrap around, but I expect you to--ugh, Nero!"

The turbulent kid had twisted out of his grasp mid-lecture, jumping down and running through the mess of magazines, clothes, and pizza boxes on Dante's floor to climb on the sofa and all over his legs. Pain jolted through them as Dante hurriedly sat and scooped him up, dragging him closer to his chest with a stark "Ack, fuck, not the legs Nero!"

"Dante," Vergil snapped, and gosh he really needed to watch his words, Nero _was_ a vocabulary sponge. 

"Sorry," Dante mumbled again, and he set his hands on Nero's ears. "Don't listen to your zio, little man." Nero laughed and tried to pull at the hands, like it was just a game they played. Not a bad idea, that. Dante removed one hand, then the other, mindlessly alternating to keep the kid busy while he returned his attention to his brother. "Look, Vergil--"

"What's wrong with your legs?"

"Demon poison or something." He shrugged and added, "It ain't that bad."

Vergil's eyebrows shot up. "Then I see no reason justifying your absence today."

Oh shit, yeah, that had kinda been his get-out-of-the-lecture-free card, hadn't it? Dante cringed. Should think twice before he ran that big mouth of his, especially around Vergil.

“I mean, I can’t stand on ‘em for more than a few steps but beyond that? Nothing to throw a fit about. Just the good ol’ regular demon hunting routine.” Vergil obviously wasn’t buying it. He stared flatly at Dante, who decided the best was to pointedly ignore him and focus on the bundle of cute in his lap. He let go of Nero’s ears, grinned at the kid, then lifted him a bit. “Were you worried about Zio Dante, kiddo? I’m tougher than that!”

“Giocare!” Nero demanded and Dante couldn’t help but laugh. Kid knew what he wanted, that was for sure. Kinda like his father on that account, really. Vergil hadn’t let up the angry stare at all.

“Brought any toys? Fighting’s gonna be tough this time ‘round.” 

Nero stared at him for a moment, blue eyes shining as he worked through the words. Then he spun on himself and pointed towards Vergil’s bag. “Giocattoli!”

Vergil frowned right back at him. “Make a sentence, Nero.” Then he repeated something in italian, and Nero responded the same, pouting all the while. He ended it with an aggressive “per favore”, like he didn’t care to be polite but knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted otherwise. Vergil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And in English?” he asked.

Nero glared right back at him and enunciated slowly, “Puh-lease,” and Dante had the distinct impression there was an ongoing argument here. Vergil dropped the bag and reached inside it, retrieving the play-doh and throwing it at Dante. 

“We won’t be staying,” he declared. “You are clearly in no state to perform your duties.”

“My duties,” Dante repeated, unable to contain the mockery in his voice. It was so formal. He just dropped by to entertain the kid while Vergil caught up on chores, no big deal. His brother didn’t _want_ him in any big deal, not in a thousand years, and he made that plenty clear with his usual hostility.

“Yes, Dante.” Vergil tilted his chin up, and although he’d used his usual haughty tone, his voice felt weirdly tight. Or maybe Dante was just tired (but it sounded like Vergil was worried, it really did). “I don’t care about your gallivanting for most of the week, but when it’s Spardaghetti day, Nero knows, and Nero is counting on you.”

He said ‘Nero’ with a lot of emphasis, which to Dante’s ears really sounded like ‘I’. Would’ve been really fucking sweet, if it hadn’t been said in the most overbearing tone possible. He handed Nero the play-doh before answering. “I’m afraid demons don’t give two shits about Spardaghetti, brother.”

“I’m afraid _I_ do not give ‘two shits’ about your excuses, _brother_. If you ever default without warning again, it _will_ be the last time. I’m well aware you’re a natural disaster, Dante, but Nero needs a reliable presence in his life.”

Dante scoffed. "And that's supposed to be me? Your degenerate, good-for-nothing brother who slips through life on booze and naps while waiting for the next demon to try and wipe out humanity? This isn't about Nero. You make it clear enough every time I come around you think I'm a terrible influence--"

"You are!" Vergil cut in, stepping forward to loom over the couch. Nero stopped playing and clutched his play-doh, turning around to stare at his father. "Every week he picks up some new habit or idea from you, and I'm forced to scold him, and then we fight again!"

Dante was pretty sure half those ideas were just games he made up on the fly that Vergil didn't want to play (and, okay, maybe some bad table manners). "Maybe if you let him have _fun_ once in a while--" He was interrupted by a tiny hand on his face. "Nero, stop that kiddo."

Nero instead slapped it hard on his mouth again. "Cease!"

Dante couldn't hold back his laugh. He picked the hand and lowered it. "I don't recommend picking up your old man's vocabulary. It'll make you look like an ass."

“ _Dante_.”

“What, am I not allowed the say ‘ass’, either?” He flashed his brother a grin, knowing full well that hadn’t been the problem, and Vergil’s glare intensified. Dante could feel the build of demonic power within him, a pulsing threat that tightened his throat, setting his own instincts in motion. “Kid's got a point, though. Ya didn’t bring him so we’d get in a tiff while he’s around, so I’ll take a rain check on that fight.”

“This isn’t a game, Dante,” Vergil started, his tone cold and cutting but lower than before.

“I wanna fight,” Nero declared, pushing against Dante’s chest. Dante’s gaze went from Vergil to Nero, and he opted to ignore the angry father (not like he ever got anywhere with Vergil anyway). He tousled the kid’s hair. “Sorry kiddo, I can’t today. No canno.”

Vergil groaned at his pathetic attempt at Italian, but Nero seemed to understand just fine. His frown deepened and big blue eyes looked up at him. “Zio Dante is…” He hesitated, huffed, then continued in Italian. “Ti senti male?”

“Sick,” Vergil provided before Dante could ask.

“Yeah kid,” Dante said. It was a simple enough explanation, even if it didn’t remotely cover how wrong it was that his body hadn’t instantly healed any of it. He lifted a hand and brought his thumb and index fingers closer, illustrating his words. “Just a bit.”

“No!” Nero slammed his two palms down on Dante’s chest angrily, then turned his whole body around and faced Vergil. He pointed Dante with an utterly crestfallen expression and yelled. “È male!”

Vergil only rolled his eyes. “I know, Nero.”

Then the kid was off, jumping off Dante (and kinda pressing on his legs on the way, and fuck that hurt) and running to Vergil, italian pouring out of his mouth faster than Dante could follow (which didn’t mean much). He didn’t need the words to hear the fear in Nero’s voice, though, nor the angry stubbornness as he started pulling on Vergil’s pants and arguing. Vergil crouched down to be at eye level with him, and they went back and forth, the kid occasionally pointing his way (Vergil glaring every time he did). Dante picked up the play-doh and pressed his fingers into it distractedly as the argument crested, then seemed to lower. Vergil was obviously losing, his expression increasingly exhausted, until he asked something that sounded like “Dante” and “a casa” and Nero let out an excited squeal and threw himself in Vergil’s arms. His brother caught him and closed his eyes, his expression softening, and briefly squeezed him.

“You win again, little monster,” he whispered, before straightening up.

“What’s going on?” Dante asked. His name had been in there quite a lot, and he didn’t trust it. 

Vergil heaved the deepest, most dramatic of sighs. “You’re coming with us.”

Dante laughed. That was so completely absurd. What was Vergil gonna do, hover around Dante like a mother hen until the poison was gone? There was no point to him going with them, and they’d be at each other's throat for the entire time. But then Nero came running, climbing right back on top of his chest, his grin shining like a thousand sun and sending the exact same warmth coursing through Dante.

“Zio Dante! Home!” He flung his arms up, and Dante could only smile back. 

“All right, kiddo. All right.” Dante ruffled his hair again, then glanced at his brother. “Looks like we’re getting a Spardaghetti after all. I’ll try and keep him busy after the meal.”

Vergil’s only answer was a low rumble, almost like a cat reluctantly agreeing. Dante decided to file that under ‘peace offerings’ and flicked him back the play-doh, so he could pack it in the bag again. This kid really had them wrapped around his little finger, because there was no way in Hell this cohabitation wouldn’t turn into a complete disaster, they both knew that, and they were still going to try.

Dante booped his nephew’s tiny nose, drawing a laugh out of him, and smiled. “You’re a miracle worker, buddy, I hope you know that.”

He set him down on the ground and pushed himself up, but the moment he put any weight on his legs, they flared back up. Dante hissed and ignored the burning pain through his nerves and muscles, taking his first step towards the door with a forced smile. The burst of agony when he set his foot down stunned him, and before he knew it, he’d stumbled forward. Cool hands caught his chest and held him up, preventing a full-on face plant, and Dante’s skull buzzed so hard he could barely hear Nero screaming his name in worry. Shit, he hadn’t realized he was so badly off while still sitting down.

“This is not what I would define as ‘not that bad’, Dante,” Vergil pointed out. 

“Got worse.” His mouth felt like paste and the ground kept shifting under him. This was no fun, he liked it better when he controlled the spinning. “I could stand yesterday.”

Without a word, Vergil shifted Dante around so he could hold up his weight, keeping one arm around his waist. He exchanged a few words with Nero and the kid came running back with his red coat, letting it trail on the ground. Was already pretty dirty, anyway. And he looked cute, dragging it. Dante bet he’d look awesome in a miniature version of it. Even Vergil wouldn’t resist. 

Dante was so caught up in the imagining of it, and the tunnel vision slowly encroaching around his sight, he never really noticed when they got to Vergil’s car, or any of the subsequent trip.

 

###

 

Despite his promise, it was obvious Dante would not be occupying Nero in any shape or form tonight, or tomorrow. In fact, it seemed he would take up a significant portion of Vergil’s time, causing the list of chores he should be helping with to lengthen instead of the other way around. He’d passed out at some point on the way back, no longer answering Nero’s pointed questions in mumbles, and the child was on the verge of another tantrum, demanding loudly that his uncle pay attention. He’d taken to pulling on Dante’s hair, repeating “Zioooo Danteeee” in the most plaintive of tone throughout the ride, and Vergil could barely focus on the road between Nero’s incessant yells and his own, painfully constricting heart.

Dante had no right to get wounded like this. He was supposed to be better than that, to have demon hunting nailed down to an art. Vergil had enough trouble handling one child, he really could not be expected to care for _two_. He should have left Dante on his couch; clearly, he’d been well enough when he was still laying down. But Nero would have had none of it, and Vergil felt like he’d spent his entire day fighting the rest of his family. At least Dante couldn’t be an irresponsible fool while he was knocked out.

When they finally got home, Vergil started by pulling a still-screaming Nero out of the car. 

“Enough, Nero,” he said, setting the child down, only to watch him immediately try to climb back in. Vergil grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “Nero. _Ascolta_.”

That made him pause. It had become something of a keyword between them, since the first fight over the use of a fork, and Vergil tried to keep it for times he _really_ needed Nero to pause and listen to him. He crouched down, hands on his arms, and met his son’s wide blue eyes.

“I know you’re worried about Dante.” He didn’t like this, either. If Dante died on him over some petty demon’s poison when he’d matched Vergil’s skills in the Temen-ni-gru, he would be infuriated. “Dante… needs our help. Il nostro aiuto? So calm down and stop yelling. Can you do that?”

Nero stared at him, tears in his eyes. “È male,” he repeated, and Vergil sighed. Better that than screaming, at least. He reached with the car, bundled up Dante’s coat, and offered it to Nero. 

“Porta questo, Nero. For your zio.”

He’d seemed to like that at the _Devil May Cry_ , and indeed, his round face hardened into determination and he extended his arms, gripping the coat with ridiculous reverence. Vergil watched him for a moment as he shifted it around to make absolutely sure he wouldn’t drop it, wondering if he might manage to get him to help in other small ways. It’d at least keep him busy. His mind running with the possibilities, he dragged Dante’s heavy body out of the car, and together they went up to the flat.

 

###

 

Vergil ought to crawl into bed. He was being of no help here, sitting on the floor by the couch Dante now occupied, staring at his twin’s feverish face as if a simple icy glare could bring his temperature down. But Nero was sleeping curled against him and he had no desire to risk waking him up, or to lose the comforting warmth of his small body. His little monster had worked very hard through the evening, keeping the cloth on Dante’s forehead fresh and wet at all times, even requesting ice cubes to throw over his uncle.

That had managed to wake Dante for a few minutes, but he’d been utterly confused and done little more than smile at Nero and repeatedly tell him he was the hottest boy on the block and ruffling his hair. He’d not even looked at Vergil, leaving him exactly no opportunity to ask questions about what had happened. Eventually, Nero had gotten tired of changing the cloth, and he’d crawled to Vergil, asking if his uncle would be all right.

Vergil had said yes, of course, and hoped he sounded more certain than he was.

It had been hours since Nero had fallen asleep, and Vergil was still awake, mentally reviewing potential demons who could have caused this. He’d gained a fairly extensive knowledge of the underworld while pursuing the Temen-ni-gru, and there were more than one possibilities here. Cycling through them was getting him nowhere. He should sleep, too, but every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Dante’s health taking a turn for the irreparable worse, and adrenaline briefly washed his exhaustion away.

Vergil still hadn’t moved an inch when the pre-dawn hours rolled in, and Dante’s fever finally broke. He let out a soft moan and reached for the now-dry cloth on his forehead, his eyes cracking open to stare at it in obvious confusion.

“What…”

Vergil’s heart pounded and he schooled himself into remaining very still, to avoid waking Nero from his fitful sleep. Part of him wanted to jump to his feet and touch Dante’s forehead and maybe also stab him for the night of worry, but he wrapped a tight vice of discipline around his impulses and kept his tone cool as he explained. 

“You had a fever. Nero wished to help.”

“Heh. Cute kid.” He turned his head slowly, as if every movement cost him. “You been here all night?”

Vergil stiffened and considered denying it, but it was unlikely Dante would not see through the lie. “I could not afford to miss an opportunity to speak with you, should you slip in and out of fever.”

“Can’t the lectures wait?” He let his arm flop down, still holding the cloth. “My brain’s not in top receiving mode when it feels like the whole body got put through the wringer.”

“As long as your brain remembers which demon scored that hit on you, then I’m sure I can hold off.”

“Oh hum…” Dante’s gaze unfocused for a moment. “Big lizard thing. Tail kinda like a scorpion? I mean, it had a stinger, that makes it scorpion-like. But I think it used the claws, for the poison, except he was behind me so I can’t really tell. It slashed, not punctured.”

That was exceedingly vague as a description, and the more Dante went on, the less Vergil trusted the details given. “Do you not pay _any_ attention to what you’re fighting?”

Dante shrugged. “Why waste my time? It’s all dead within minutes. Lady’s the demon expert anyway.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still alive,” Vergil commented. Lady must have opened all the puzzles in the Temen-ni-gru for him, too, if that was the extent of Dante’s observations and reasoning skills. Vergil ran fingers through his son’s hair. He’d still been so scared, when he’d finally fallen asleep. “You should be more careful.”

“I thought I was gonna be spared the lectures.”

Vergil sneered. “It’s not a lecture; it’s a fact.” He grabbed Nero’s tiny body under its armpits and stood up, lifting his son with him. Spindly arms wrapped around his neck and Nero mumbled something about his zio, sending spears of jealousy coursing through Vergil. He shut them down as best as he could, lifting his chin and glaring down at Dante. “Understand this, brother. As much as it displeases me, _you_ are Nero’s favourite thing in this world. He loves you. When you miss a Spardaghetti, it upsets him. When you’re wounded, it upsets him. If you care about him, then you’ll care for yourself.”

He spun away without waiting for a response, the lump in his throat too tight, fatigue threatening to crack his composure. Nero needed to be put in bed, anyway. Vergil took his first step towards his room before Dante mumbled a reply.

“You always think everybody loves me better.”

Vergil stopped dead, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t only _think_ , he _knew_. Dante might not see it because he was constantly showered in love and rewarded for his eccentricities, but that was a simple truth of their existence.

“That was not the point, Dante.”

“I know. Just.” He groaned and Vergil heard him shift on the couch. “It’s shit when you do that. S’not my fault you’re never nice to anyone.”

Vergil held onto Nero tighter. It wasn’t his job to be nice and he had too much to accomplish to waste time with it. It shouldn’t even matter, that others loved Dante more, and only exhaustion was making him remotely emotional over this. He knew better than to dwell on such foolishness. 

“Goodnight, Dante. Rest. You’ll need it.”

He strode into his room and closed the door, praying Dante wouldn’t reply, or that he wouldn’t hear it. At least he had the information he needed, to some extent. If he could catch a few hours of rest, he should be able to figure out what manner of demon had poisoned Dante and how to treat him, should the fever and pain refuse to go. From the sounds of it, it had already been a few days, and it was unlikely to vanish on its own.

Part of Vergil wanted to drop in his bed fully dressed and fall asleep there, Nero held tight against him, but he’d regret the clothes in the morning. He pushed his exhaustion back for a while longer, methodically unbuttoning Nero’s little polo and pulling it above his head. Dazed blues eyes stared back at him once it was done, their one question obvious.

“He’s better,” Vergil said. Nero wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was already nodding off. “Let’s get you in the red PJs. He’ll like that.”

They were Nero’s favourite, anyway, and the only ones he rarely fought over. Vergil hurried through the routine, promising himself he’d give Nero a proper bath tomorrow, and clean up the hurried spaghetti meal they’d eaten in the living room, and also get through the list of tasks he’d prepared when he still expected Dante to show up as usual. All of it, of course. Vergil scoffed at himself, dressed down, and crawled into bed, curling against Nero. One could always dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might have noticed Lady was tagged in on the fic? Well, it's coming!! Also, seriously Vergil, get your jealousy under control LOL


	5. Ringing In Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante's health is deteriorating, but Vergil finally formulates a plan to help him get better. Only... he will need outside help to put it into action, to his great regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Lady O' Clock!!! Really excited to have them interact :D 
> 
> Those of you paying attention to chapter numbers will notice it bumped from 6 to 7. That's 'cause I don't know how to count haha. There was always seven but I had numbered them wrong OOPS.
> 
> also my fingers slipped and everyone gets an early update, yay :D

Dante dreamt of fire licking his legs, of a child's voice calling to him, distorted and in pain, of their mother running away, calling Vergil through the flames. He woke to bright blue eyes and a wiry, mostly naked body saddling him; Nero staring down at him as he applied something wet, thin, and smelly to his face. Dante's entire body felt like it was burning, except for the places Nero touched him and his legs (which had gone way past burning and all the way to brutal agony).

He grunted in surprise, and Nero's eyes widened. He quickly pulled back what he was doing, looking up in fear, and Dante caught sight of the black marker before the kid could hide it behind his back.

"You lil' trickster," he said, and fuck but his mouth was dry! It felt like he'd been sucking on sandpaper or something. "Ngh. Kid. Can ya get me water?"

Big, worried eyes stared at him. “Zio. Are you… okay?”

“I’m gonna be straight with you kid, I feel like crap. But water will help.”

“Acqua!” Nero declared with a determined nod, and he clambered down Dante, bouncing himself on the mattress and jumping off the bed. 

Wait. He was in a bed? Dante frowned. He distinctly remembered the couch yesterday. Had he been so knocked out that Vergil could move him without even waking him up? Dante ran a slow hand over his face, sighing.

“You’re awake.” Vergil’s voice drifted from the doorway before he glided inside. His eyes seemed sunken in and his shoulders lacked the usual stiffness, but an amused glint lit up his gaze when he got closer. “Aah, I see Nero ran out of space.”

“Out of space?”

“Look down your chest, brother,” Vergil said with a wide gesture towards it.

Dante’s eyes followed the hand, down to his bare chest, now absolutely covered in blacks lines, dots, circles, and other filled in forms. Nero had clearly had a field day all over his chest, covering almost every inch of it with his usual nonsensical drawings. Was that what he’d been doing to his face? With a laugh, Dante reached for his cheek, where he’d felt the wet line earlier, and wondered how much of him was covered in black lines. 

“Fantastic. Can’t wait for you to write some cool poetry lines on my ass.”

Vergil pinched his lips in a delightful expression of absolute disgust. “Healthy enough to ruin everything, I see.”

“Nah, I just never let a little pain stop me,” Dante replied. Vergil’s eyebrows pinched at the statement, and he could tell the question in his brother’s mind before he asked it. “Everything hurts like hell, the legs more than anything. They didn’t use to hurt unless something put pressure. It’s a bitc--”

He stopped himself just as Nero came running in, splashing half the glass of water everywhere on his way. Dante pushed himself up on his elbow and downed it in one go, before giving it back to the kid. 

“More?”

Nero pouted at him. “Le parole magiche, Zio Dante!”

Dante glanced at Vergil. He rarely understood shit of what the kid said in italian, but with the way his brain throbbed right now, he wasn’t about to. 

“He wants the magic words. Which, frankly, you should have given him outright. For shame.”

Great. He was getting scolded on his manners by Vergil while half-dying from poison and fever (but what else was new, really?). “Thank you for the water, Nero. Can I get more, _please_?” 

Hadn’t this kid given Vergil attitude while saying please just yesterday? Because if he was out there demanding respect he refused to give others, then he was _definitely_ Vergil’s son. Except Nero could get away with it, because all he had to do was grin at Dante, and the utter adorableness melted all his frustration away. By the time he skipped away to get more water, he was already forgiven.

“What time is it?” Dante asked.

“Nearly three in the afternoon.” Vergil leaned against his wall and crossed his arms. His voice remained steady, almost didactic, and Dante couldn’t help but wonder what other feelings he was hiding behind the cadence. “Your fever has been coming and going in waves. Nero has barely left your side since he helped you eat this morning. He thinks--”

“He helped me eat this morning?” Dante interrupted.

Vergil blanched, but his expression otherwise did not move from his previous frown. “Before we moved you, yes. Do you not remember?”

Dante closed his eyes and tried to dig through his memories. Everything was so hazy, as if pain had blanketed the whole last twenty four hours, but if he focused enough, he could feel a small weight on his lap and a cold hand on his collarbone, steadying Nero as he guided a spoon to Dante’s mouth. Much bigger arms held his body upright, solid against his back, while Vergil whispered encouragements to Nero. Dante had been awake enough to eat and stay sitting, but not much else. He remembered cracking a joke, and Vergil’s subsequent scoff, but not his actual words. 

“Yeaah… all right. It rings a bell. Shit, I really am in a terrible shape.” He dragged his body upright, leaning himself against the wall, his legs still extended under the blanket. Besides the awful pain, he felt fine _now_ , but for how long? “It wasn’t anywhere near like this the first day or two.”

“All the pizza must have triggered it, then,” Vergil replied, his tone so smooth that Dante wasn’t certain if he was being mocked or not. “Regardless, as Nero refused to leave you, I had ample opportunity to browse through my books for the description you gave me. I believe I have pinpointed our culprit--a lesser cousin of the Riot, much less powerful in musculature, but gifted with a powerful and slow acting poison.”

“It’s also very dead,” Dante said. “Sliced through in tiny ribbons.”

“I certainly hope so,” Vergil snapped. “They can track poisoned prey. Usually they wait for them to die or be too weak to defend themselves. I do believe any lurking ones would’ve made their attempt late in the night or early this morning, if they were going to, but we ought to be careful.”

Dante stared at him. “Wait. I don’t want to be here if any of them--”

Nero came running back into the room then, carrying the second glass of water with him (and still spilling most of it). This time, Dante immediately thanked him, drinking it down before ruffling the boy’s white hair. His eyes never left Vergil, however, and they both knew what Dante had meant. Nero had already seen more than enough demons in his short lifetime.

“I would never forgive you, Dante,” Vergil said casually as his son climbed back onto the bed. “I hope you understand that.”

“Makes two of us,” Dante said. “I swear they’re all dead.”

Then Nero had crawled right back over Dante and set his palms on his chest, looking at him with the world’s most serious expression on his face. Dante wished he had the energy to brawl with him like they usually did, but the whole fucking world felt like it was underwater (kinda like he’d drank _way_ too much, but without any of the fun parts).

“Hey buddy,” Dante greeted. “You wanna explain what’s all that you drew on my chest?”

Nero pouted and started answering in italian, only to stop halfway through and start over. “If… if you are best?”

“Better?” Dante asked. “I am. And I’ll be even more better soon! We got a plan.”

Vergil had said no such thing, but his brother always had a plan, right? He risked a glance and caught him rolling his eyes. “I’ll figure it out,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall. “Both of you are scheduled for a nap within an hour, however. Is that clear?”

“Sure _dad_ ,” Dante replied, and he grinned when it earned him a withering glare. 

Nero, on the other hand, was entirely too excited about the idea. He threw his hands up and exclaimed “Siesta con zio Dante!” before leaning hard against Dante’s chest, like he wanted to sleep right there and then. Dante set a hand on his back to squeeze him there, basking in the tiny bit of peace Nero always gave him. He only ever felt so calm when he fought demons, the thrill of the battle pushing him into a completely different headspace. But this kid? He was something else.

By the time Dante looked up again, Vergil had left the room. Not another word spoken. Damn, but did he always keep everything boiling just under the surface, ready to explode. Part of Dante wished Vergil would speak more, but the other remembered the kind of stuff he’d said in the middle of the night and was quite fine with Vergil’s silences (let him work through his bullshit first--clearly two years hadn’t changed him that much from the Temen-ni-gru, only shifted some priorities). 

With a sigh, Dante returned his attention to Nero and pulled him off his chest a bit. “We can do la siesta later, kiddo. Now I wanna hear all about your art. Take your time.”

He rarely held long conversations with Nero: they tended to brawl on the floor or play ridiculous physical games quite a lot more. Dante always figured he did all the brainiac things with his father, anyway. And for sure, as Nero started to explain his drawing (not that any of it made any real sense, not even to Dante’s feverish mind), it was obvious he’d gotten a lot better with English. So Dante let the tiny voice carry him, nodding or asking questions as they went, doing his best not to let his mind drift too far from Nero’s very enthusiastic descriptions.  


###

 

By the end of the afternoon, Vergil had miraculously worked his way through a surprising section of his chores’ lists. He didn’t have to keep an eye on his child while he refused to leave Dante’s side, and even with the hours lost skimming through his downtrodden demon bestiary, he’d cobbled together enough time to start the laundry, clean the last two days’ worth of dishes, and immediately return the kitchen to its now-standard chaos by preparing meals for the week. The house wasn’t remotely clean, but in the brief time Nero had been in his life, Vergil had already learned to count his victories.

The cleaning had kept his mind from drifting too close to Dante’s prolonged presence in his home, to Nero’s constant outpouring of love for him and their easy relationship, to the way his chest constricted first in jealousy, then in worry… and to how intense the second had become with time and research. Dante was _dying_ \--very, very slowly, and fighting it every step of the way, but it was obviously getting worse, and the sight of him tossing and turning in painful fever dreams over the last hours had scattered Vergil’s thoughts in a panic. 

Vergil reached for the amulet around his neck, closing his eyes to avoid seeing how shaky his hands had become while he gripped it. Two years ago they had pushed each other to death’s doorstep, but this was different. There was no goal and no reason, and they had Nero now. _He_ had shards of a family again and despite their constant fights, he couldn’t bear the idea of losing it once more.

He had held himself together until he’d had to hold Dante’s burning body up and half-force breakfast down his throat, reassuring Nero that it would all be fine even as he increasingly crumbled inside. It wasn’t fine. None of this was. But he was going to fix it, damnit.

Deep breaths, Vergil told himself. The voices from the bedroom had died down. Vergil pushed himself off the table and stalked to it, peering through the doorway. Nero had fallen asleep right on top of his uncle, cheek against Dante’s marked chest, arms and legs splayed out every which way. Dante had a hand on his back and his content smile softened the crammy pallor of his skin. His fever would return eventually, and Vergil might have to peel Nero away, but right now they looked almost peaceful.

It was up to him to make it last. At least he did have a plan. Somewhat. Vergil wished he could put it into motion entirely on his own, but he was trapped here with Nero and Dante. So he gritted his teeth, picked up the phone, and called Dante’s occasional demon hunting partner. She picked up after exactly three and a half rings, and he wondered if she was purposefully waiting to see if the caller would hang up after three.

“I’m listening.” Her voice was young and sharp over the line—exactly like he remembered.

“Mary—"

“Whoever the fuck you are, you call me that one more time and I’ll hunt you down and blast your skull into a thousand tiny pieces.”

Right. She’d dropped that name hot and quick—and who wouldn’t really, considering Arkham had given it to her? Vergil gritted his teeth, trying to remember what Dante had called her. He should’ve given this call more thought before he dialed.

“Apologies,” he said, his tone mild. “It’s Lady, isn’t it, now? This is…” He trailed off and sighed. No sense beating around the bush. “This is Vergil.”

A pause at the other end. “Nevermind that, then. I got a rocket here with your name on it already.”

Vergil stared at the wall in front of him, calling upon countless hours of training in remaining calm through Arkham’s endless rambles, and using that particular skill to ignore his daughter’s threats and remain serene. “Charming. I have a request for you.”

“Sure thing!” Lady replied with sarcastic joy. “Take the request and shove it up your ass, Vergil.”

“It’s for an antidote,” he forged on.

“Did I ever look like an apothecary to you?”

“Under no circumstances, no, but--”

“There you go. Request answered.”

The phone clicked on the other end, and nothing but the sound of a dead line filled Vergil’s ears. Great. She hadn’t even let him explain. Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose and dialed again.

Lady gave him no time for words when she answered. “I had a change of heart. Give me your address! I’m in the mind for hunting a particular half-demon.”

“Hilarious.” Vergil glanced towards his bedroom, where Dante was sleeping as poison slowly ate through his legs. “I have no time to waste on your games, Lady.”

“Glad we could agree on something.”

She hung up again, with even more force than the first time. Vergil stared at his phone, tapping the table in frustration. Why would Dante ever deal with her? She acted like a child. But she was a resourceful one, and he needed an outside agent. So he slammed her number into the phone again, gathering the remains of his patience.

“You Spardas really are all relentless assholes, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” he conceded with the hint of a smile. Dante had a way to stubbornly get on everyone’s nerves, not only his, it seemed. “Please don’t hang up again.”

A pause; Vergil held his breath. “Was that begging?” Lady asked.

“Of course not.”

“You said please.”

“It’s not begging.” He did not beg, no matter how much she wished for it. “I would, however, appreciate if you gave me time to explain. I certainly am not calling for pleasure.”

“You even know what that word means?” she asked. He heard a thump on the other end and wondered what she was up to. “Just get your antidote yourself and leave me alone.”

“I cannot.” Why would he bother calling her if that was an option?

“Of course you can. You could raise a gigantic tower linking the human and demon worlds. You’ll figure it out.”

Vergil gritted his teeth. This _was_ him figuring it out. If she forced his hand, he would seek the antidote himself, but he loathed the idea of leaving Nero behind, even for a few hours. His gaze drifted to the numerous drawings now covering his lower walls, the physical manifestation of his new obligations. “My circumstances have changed. I have… far less mobility.”

“Why the fuck would I believe that?”

Vergil licked his lips. He knew this would likely happen—that Lady wouldn’t accept half-assed explanations—but he hadn’t allowed word of Nero’s existence to get out past Dante. It was their secret, and he’d have rather stayed a ghost for their protection.

“Do you remember when Dante asked you… what you would do, if you had to live with a powerful artifact draining time and energy for several weeks? That was for me.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

“The artifact is my son.” Lady choked on the other end of the line and he continued before she could comment, his heart hammering. “He… he is not of an appropriate age to leave alone or to bring with me to seedier locations. As Dante is the one in need of the antidote, I found myself… short on options.”

“Is this a prank?” she asked, and the anger in her voice changed. It felt… less performative, perhaps, and more dangerous. “Dante, your imitation of Vergil is too good, cut it out.”

Vergil rolled his eyes. As if Dante could achieve anything remotely close to him. “Dante would’ve cracked the moment you advised me to shove my request up my ass, and I am of the opinion that you understand this.”

She didn’t answer, and Vergil used the silence to steady himself. They weren’t allies, Lady and him, and a part of him worried she’d decide he was a threat. He ought to keep the Yamato closer and to carve time in his days for training. Nero needed him to stay at his best at all times, to be ready for any eventuality, but hours slipped by him so fast, he could barely keep up with the strictest necessities. Secrecy became an essential defense.

 "This is a business offer. I will pay, and I will pay extra for you to keep Nero's existence and my location a secret." His palm had grown sweaty, his heartbeat so irregular it made him nauseous. Perhaps it would've been less dangerous to go on his own, to keep his life close to himself, even if it meant leaving Nero here. But Lady already knew, now. He could always move out after, if need be. "I assure you, this pleases me even less than you, but I could think of no one else to entrust this task to, and this poison has interfered with Dante's healing. His life may be at stake."

"When the fuck did you even start caring about Dante's life anyway?"

An excellent question to which he had no answers. He always had, in a sense, even as the name filled him with bitterness. It was a complicated matter, upon which it may be best not to reflect too deeply. A new factor had entered the equation now, anyway.

"He is Nero's uncle," he said softly.

Lady paused. He hoped the question meant she was considering his request.

"This is fucked up," she said. "Par for the course when you're concerned, really." 

Her tone had softened. Vergil could barely breathe. "Will you…"

"Yeah." Some shuffling at the other end of the line. "All right, I'm ready to take notes. Give me the details."

Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, his ears ringing from the wave of relief, and he allowed himself a moment to rebuild his composure and sort through his thoughts. When he started, he left nothing out: he described the nature of Dante's wounds, the physical attributes of the demon responsible, his hypothesis regarding its type, the known effects of its poison, and the different components that were often found in antidotes. He went through everything in a clinical tone, forbidding his mind from lingering on who the victim was and focusing on the very light scratching of pen on paper on the other side. Lady only interrupted for a few sharp questions--intelligent ones, which was reassuring to some extent--and then he reluctantly gave his address.

"Sounds like I got everything," she said. "You better pay up, Vergil, 'cause now I know where you live."

"I never break my promises." It was somewhat insulting that she'd even suggest it.

"That's easy when you don't technically promise anything," she pointed out.

Vergil raised his eyebrows. She was right, he had to give her that; he hadn’t strictly _promised_ to pay yet. Clearly, despite her youth, Lady was not the kind of person one could easily trick and take advantage of. 

"I promise you will be paid," he said.

"Now that's what I like to hear! See you soon."

She hung up on him again, and this time Vergil set the phone down, too. It was done. He felt empty and hated how he'd have little to no control on the ripples of this decision. 'Hope for the best' was not Vergil's preferred strategy, but there was little else for him to do now. When he looked up, he found a bleary-eyed Nero staring at him.

"Talk?" he asked, before he pointed to the phone.

"I did. She is a friend of Dante."

"Amica?" Nero repeated hesitantly.

Vergil frowned. He must be exhausted, if he struggled with such a simple sentence. But then, Italian was trying to get away from him, too. "Yes, Nero. L’amica di Dante viene qui. Per… er… per aiutare."

And then Nero burst out crying, big ugly tears and sobs. He just stood there, at the edge of the kitchen, water running down his cheeks. Vergil froze. Why was he crying? He'd just said help was coming! That was supposed to be good news, but Nero only started mumbling about Dante and 'morire' and 'male', and with all the sobbing and muttering, Vergil couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

"Nero…" 

The child ignored him, just dropped on his ass and kept crying there. Vergil watched him for a moment, then belatedly realized he ought to do something about it. He left the kitchen table behind and picked up Nero from the ground, but the child only cried harder, leaning back and squirming, slamming tiny fists into Vergil's upper chest.

"Stop it," Vergil said, and when that didn't work, he caught the tiny hands. "Stop, Nero! He'll be fine." He met the wet blue eyes, tiny universes that had swallowed his entire life, and held them firm, too. "I promise."

Nero quieted down, sobs and tears turning into sniffles, then he leaned forward against Vergil, who tried not to think about the snot on his shirt. He glanced at the dishes on the counter and the unfinished list of tasks--endless responsibilities waiting for him--then put them out of his mind. At least for now. He… he deserved a tiny break, didn’t he?

Vergil crashed into the couch with Nero, arms around the tiny bundle of sniffling warmth, exhaustion settling into his bones. Sooner or later, Lady would show up with an antidote and they could go back to Spardaghetti evenings and Dante's boisterous invasion of Vergil's space, Nero's laughter filling the flat while he cleaned up. Nero had thrown his life completely off the rails, yet he couldn't bring himself to regret the change anymore. This was his job now, and he knew he was strikingly bad at it, but Nero was _his_ little monster. They were stuck with each other, for better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly writing Lady and Vergil here was so fun? They don't actually share a lot of screen time in DMC3 when you think about it, which makes it really interesting to see how much they mostly assume about each other, and what changes once you soften up Vergil with failure + Nero. XD The dialogues between them just write themselves, which is A+ in my book.


	6. The Antidote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which helps arrive, Lady and Vergil learn to cooperate, healing Dante doesn't go remotely as planned, and Nero learns a fundamental truth about his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey, Lady's about to be more than a voice on the phone ~
> 
> Not much to say ahead of time for this chapter except maybe *prepare yourselves* haha, and a continuous thank you for all the love this fic is getting. I absolutely adore all the comments, y'all are the best. <3

Slamming on the door jostled Vergil awake. He rolled off to the side, reflexively reaching for the Yamato behind his bedside table, only to crash hard on the ground and belatedly realize he'd fallen asleep on the couch at some point late in the evening, after putting Nero back in bed next to Dante. He pushed himself back up with a grunt, running a hand through his hair and smoothing the creases in his shirt as he dragged himself to the door.

When he opened, he had a gun's barrel pointed at his face. How typical.

"Greetings, Lady," he said mildly, before he set his fingers on the side of the pistol and pushed it an inch away. "That is unnecessary."

"I'll be the judge of that," she said. "Where's Dante?"

He met her frown with one of his own. "Where's the antidote?"

Lady produced a palm-sized opaque bottle and gave it a slight shake, but when Vergil reached for it, she pulled it away. He glared at her; she smiled. "No amount of money could make me just hand this to you, no questions asked. It has instructions, and if you want them, you'll let me see Dante."

Vergil gritted his teeth. He'd had no intention of allowing Lady into his space, but he hadn't really thought ahead to that. He'd needed the antidote and she had been the solution. Except now that she was here, she might become the problem, too. Lady had come decked out from head to toe in various guns, with more ammunition strapped around her than he cared to count, and she'd even kept her rocket launcher on her back.

"Dante. Right." He pulled the door open but stayed in her path. "Weapons in the closet. All of them. You're not going anywhere near Nero with _any_ guns."

"Are you serious?"

Vergil tilted his chin up, eyebrows rising. "Why would you believe I jest?"

Lady's mouth thinned into an angry line, and mismatched eyes detailed him again, and Vergil quickly caught on to what she was looking for.

"I don't have the Yamato on me."

"You don't need it to be a threat," she countered.

Flattering… and absolutely true. Vergil couldn't help his slight smile. He should be more irritated at her resistance, but it felt good to be taken seriously, to be recognized for more than his ability to change Nero's diapers and clean the dishes. Lady still saw the demon, and under her gaze he stood a little straighter. 

"You could cribble me with bullets all you want, and I would heal," he said.

She stepped closer to him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Not if I'm fast enough." 

"You're not." She was good, but not that much. "And as much as I'd love to prove it, my babysitter is dying."

“Your--” Lady burst out in a quick laugh and finally lowered her gun. “You must be desperate to even consider Dante a reliable babysitter.”

“Who said anything about reliable?” Vergil replied, a thin smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Besides, _he_ leaves Rebellion at the door without protest and I’ve actually stabbed him before, unlike you.”

Lady stored her weapon and looked at him hard again. She hadn’t said anything, yet he could feel a shift in her attitude, and it no longer felt like the eyes roaming over him were calculating threat levels. He briefly wondered what she saw, now--if he looked even remotely put together or if the shortened nights and stressful days showed--and it took him everything not to try and smooth over his pants at the thought. 

“All right,” Lady said after a moment. “No weapons it is.”

Vergil hesitated for an instant, then finally stepped back, letting her into his flat. He opened the closet door and watched her sling the rocket launcher off her back and set it in without a word, his arms crossed. Then she started removing her shotgun and pistols, unstrapping weapons and ammunition from just about every body part possible: hips, shoulders, thighs, boots--on and on, every time Vergil thought she was done, she found a new one to strip off, until he had an actual arsenal of guns and explosives in his closet and he couldn’t fathom how she’d carried all of it on her body.

“Are you done yet?” he asked, inordinately irritated as she stared at the shelves now displaying her weapon. 

“Just following _your_ rules, demon dad,” Lady retorted with a smirk. The nickname sent brutal warmth coursing through Vergil and stole any snippy reply out of him, and he tried to fight the flush creeping up his cheeks. He _liked_ it, curse it all, and he didn’t trust his voice to remain cold and steady if he replied. Lady thankfully wasn’t looking at him. She set a hand on her hip. “But yeah, I think I’m good.”

Right. For all his impatience at her infinite amount of weapons, Vergil wasn’t keen on walking her through the flat. He inhaled deeply and turned heels, leading her straight forward, past the kitchen on the right and living room on the left, to his bedroom door. Most of his living area was entirely open, and there’d be no hiding the horrifying state of his home. And indeed, Lady whistled as she followed.

“Would’ve never taken you for a messy person,” she said.

“I am not.”

She laughed, her voice loud and frank, and he raised a hand to silence her before she could reply. They’d reached the bedroom, and he gently pushed the door open. 

Dante had found his way above the bedsheets and spread his two arms out. The moonlight cast a pale shine on his clammy skin, and his white hair almost glowed in it, plastered as it was on his forehead. Nero’s marker on his chest looked like a myriad of tiny scars in the dim light, but Vergil knew the ones truly responsible for this were on the back of his legs--two striking red gashes that had only swollen with time. Nero had curled up against one of the arms like a koala hanging onto a tree, worry carved into his expression even in his sleep. Vergil wished he could smooth it away--and his only chance of that stood behind him, silent for once. He could see the shock of Nero’s existence slowly sink in and the soft swear on her lips. She clearly hadn’t believed him, and he wasn’t certain what to tell her.

“He loves Dante,” was all he found, fondness and jealousy creeping into his tone.

“He’s gonna hate the instructions, then.” Lady retrieved the antidote’s flask and extended it towards Vergil. “Shit’s supposed to be awfully painful. Dante can take it, but you’ll want to keep him out of sight from the kid. The apothecary advised to slash his wounds back open and apply the antidote to the bandages, but I think with Dante we’ll have to pour what we can directly in before it seals over. And he’s supposed to drink the rest.”

“I can handle that.” He clasped his fingers around the flask as he replied, but Lady didn’t let go. Vergil scowled and met her gaze. “Your job is finished. This is all I needed.”

“You’re not gonna be rid of me that easily.”

They glared at each other for a long time, neither willing to give in. Vergil didn’t care what she thought she was doing: he didn’t want her around the house any longer than necessary. She was an intruder, here only through necessity, and he’d already violated his own privacy enough for years to come. She’d seen his _son_ , damnit, and if it was up to him, the whole world’s eyes would never touch Nero. But Lady clearly didn’t care much, and her grip on the antidote only tightened.

In the tense silence, Dante let out a low moan, tried to flip over, and hissed as he moved his legs. Glazed blue eyes briefly flickered open, and he rubbed his face with his free arm, then his eyes closed once more. Vergil reflexively let go of the antidote, stepping closer to the bed, a weight dropping at the bottom of his stomach.

“Dante.”

“... Vergil?” Dante’s voice was husky. Vergil hovered closer still, until his brother waved at the air. “No. You’re dead… Stupid alcohol. Must’ve drank too much again…”

Vergil stiffened. He could feel Lady’s gaze burning his back, feel the questions he had no answers to. It was the fever, of course, but why would he think Vergil dead? Why mention alcohol? Had… had Dante imagined him before while passed out drunk on his own couch? Vergil had had his own share of accursed dreams where Dante came running, encasing him in a hug and going endlessly on about how glad he was to have finally found his brother. Always, he’d awakened alone, either waiting still for Dante in their childhood home in Red Grave City or roaming the world, dodging Mundus’s pursuit. But Dante had _never_ searched for him; for too long, Vergil had made himself easy to find, just in case. 

“Dante,” he said again, his voice slicing and cold, a shield against Lady more than anything. “No one’s dead yet. You just fought like a clod and got yourself poisoned.”

Dante mumbled something again, and when Vergil shook his shoulder to wake him up, he only slapped the hand away. So much for _that_. He wished Lady wasn’t watching his every move as he strode around the bed and reached for Nero, gently peeling him away from Dante’s arm, hushing him when the child mumbled, and tucking him right back under the cover. If they were lucky, he’d stay asleep through Dante’s treatment. Vergil sighed and brushed the child’s hair out of his eyes before straightening up. 

“If you wish to remain here, you’ll stay out of the way.” He didn’t need to turn to know she’d scowled, but he ignored it entirely, picking up first the Yamato, then Dante from the bed. His twin's entire body was burning now, he was sticky from sweating, and even the slightest brush of his legs on the bed made him hiss. Vergil tried to ignore the worry crawling through him like bugs running across his skin, but from the way Lady’s expression softened, he was not doing a great job of it. 

She fell into step behind him and they remained mostly silent as they prepared the bathroom. Vergil set Dante down on his chest in the bath while she retrieved the first aid kit, then he climbed in barefooted and slid the Yamato out of its sheath. The blade sang, giddy with excitement. It had been _so long_ since he'd last used it.

"Really?" Lady asked. "You're gonna use your fucking katana to reopen his wounds?"

"It has no equals." Vergil set its tip against the edge of the long ugly gash in the back of Dante's legs. "Its precision is unparalleled, its cuts clean and easy to heal. Why don't you close the door and stand ready with the poison, instead of uttering pointless criticisms and wasting our time?"

"This is why I wanted my guns," she muttered, but at least she reached for the door and closed them in. 

"This is why you don't have them."

Then she was by his side, antidote bottle uncorked, and it was time. Lady held one of Dante's legs while Vergil set his foot on the other. He glanced at her; she nodded. In one flowing movement, Vergil slashed the wounds open, flicking drops of blood against the white ceramic of his bath. Dante's healing kicked in immediately, the edges of the wound shining a bright orange as they started sealing themselves, but Lady poured the antidote in quickly, slipping at least half the bottle inside before the cut closed on itself. 

Dante jerked under the pain, and Vergil threw himself on his knees, catching his brother's head before he could smash it against the ceramic--though, really, it was as much for his bath as it was for Dante. His brother was panting, a low growl escaped his throat, and he slammed a palm down, like he was trying to push himself up through the pain.

"He needs to drink the rest," Lady reminded him.

"Very well," Vergil said. "Let's flip him ov--"

A searing demonic aura burst from Dante, brutal waves of power washing over them, momentarily stunning Vergil. Bare skin blackened under him, shifting into hard scales protecting a fiery core, and alarm shot through Vergil as he realized what was happening--then two wings sprouted from Dante’s back, one slamming Lady backward, the other sending Vergil flying into the showerhead. Pain burst through his back as it shattered, water splashing down on them, but Vergil let Dante’s power call to his own, icy strength coursing through his veins, pulsing out of him to meet the fire. Small teal scales covered his arms, his hair shifted into horns, his demon tail grew, and as his wings sprouted, he used them to push himself right back at Dante, slamming him back at the bottom of the bath. Dante had barely had time to turn himself over--perfect.

“Lady!” Vergil snapped, his voice distorted by the demon form, a thousand echoes of power. 

She flung the antidote bottle his way without hesitation, and as Vergil’s claws closed around it, Dante swiped at him with a growl, forcing him to lean back. _“Vergil.”_

Out of Dante’s mouth, Vergil’s name was anger and sorrow, threat and promise all at once. Fever had confused Dante earlier--what was he imagining now, pain coursing through his body, water falling upon them from above, his twin’s demonic aura so close? 

“Snap out of it, you fool,” Vergil growled back, perhaps pointlessly. 

It didn’t matter. He could hold Dante back, once he’d pushed the antidote in. Vergil sank into himself--the thrill of battle, strength coursing through his muscles, time and space bending at his will. The rest of the room faded away as he grasped at his environment, freezing the very flow of time around him. Dante would feel it, could even move through it, with enough focus--his own powers rivalled Vergil’s on a good day. But this wasn’t a good day, and Vergil grabbed his twin’s chin and forced his mouth open, slamming the bottle down and shattering it on Dante’s sharp teeth. Glass shards cut his palm and Dante’s lips, only for the wounds to heal the moment time snapped back to its regular rhythm. 

Dante spit glass at him with a snarl, and suddenly they were a blur of claws, punches, and kicks, their respective healing working fast to block out surges of pain and new wounds, the ceramic cracking under them, water mixing with blood as it trickled down their back. Vergil managed to block most attacks, keeping his own urges to hit back hard and fast in check, his ears trained on Dante’s ragged breath and groans, a surefire sign that under his surge of aggressivity, the antidote was burning through him. He just needed to hold Dante down long enough for the devil trigger to run its course--surely it couldn’t take _that_ long.

Tiny fists hammered at the bathroom’s door, and through the blitz of violence and the headiness of their demonic auras, a small, terrified voice called. “Zio Dante!!”

Vergil’s head snapped towards the door, his heart climbing into his throat. In the instant of distraction, Dante grabbed the Yamato, sheathed alongside Vergil’s forearm within his demon form, flipped his grip on the fiery blue blade, and rammed it through Vergil’s chest. Pain exploded within him, tearing a scream out of him and leaving his skull buzzing and his vision blurring. Vergil grabbed Dante’s elbow and shoulders, holding him tight so he couldn’t pull the blade out.

“Lady,” he gasped. “Don’t let Nero--”

“On it.”

She slipped out of the bathroom, never opening the door wide enough for the child to see, and beyond the awful ringing in his ears, Vergil heard his little monster’s screams of protests. He didn’t know which of him or Lady had the most arduous task here. He’d have to trust she could hold Nero from the blood-soaked bathroom; Dante was pulling against his hold. Vergil snapped his attention back to him, digging his claws in his brother’s flesh.

“Steady, Dante,” he said, pain and exhaustion choking his voice. “It’s over. You stopped me.”

Dante jerked the Yamato, half-pulling it out despite Vergil’s best effort to hold him still--his raw strength had always been more impressive. The wave of pain almost made Vergil lose his balance, so he clung to Dante instead, leaning his forehead close.

“Vergil…” Dante’s voice was rough, cracking, confused. Was he finally returning to reality?

Vergil lifted his head, met flaming red eyes. “Little brother. This is my shower. You were sick, remember?”

Dante’s aura resorbed as brutally as it had come, his grip on the Yamato slipping as he turned human once more, sparks of red flying around him. Vergil held him as he fell, lowering the two of them down and back into the bath, never letting go of Dante’s fluttering blue eyes. 

“Fuck but it hurts,” Dante whispered.

Vergil snorted. “Language, Dante.” 

He grabbed the Yamato and pulled it all the way out, groaning as his blood splurged out, half-covering Dante. The rest of his devil energy went into knitting his insides back up, and then it was gone, leaving him drenched in the bath, his clothes a mess of blood and tears, his entire body shaking from the exertion. When he looked back up, Dante had passed out again. How stellar. 

Vergil climbed out of the bath and stayed kneeling on the other side, out of the shower’s cold water. His entire bathroom was a disaster of broken walls and bloodstains, but Dante’s body wasn’t burning up anymore. Vergil allowed himself a moment to breathe and piece his dizzied mind back together. Nero was still screaming, arguing with Lady in a language she couldn’t hope to understand, but there were a few things he needed to do first. Vergil removed his shirt--it wouldn’t do to approach his son soaked with blood--then sheathed the Yamato and set it aside. Finally, he stumbled to the closet and reached under the lowest shelves, to the water input, and turned it off. Dante groaned as the shower stopped--or perhaps Vergil was only now hearing the small indicators of pain he still gave. He’d have to ask Lady how long the antidote ought to take.

Bracing himself for the second, completely different fight to come, Vergil emerged from the bathroom. 

Lady had wrapped herself around Nero, legs and arms both, holding him tight even as he punched and pulled and squirmed. She let go the moment he stepped out, and Nero sprinted towards the bathroom. Vergil kneeled down with a sigh, ready to receive the turbulent child, only to realize Nero intended to run _past_ him and directly to Dante. He almost didn’t close the door and catch him in time.

“Slow down, little monster,” he said, pulling Nero’s wiry body closer. “Dante isn’t ready to see you yet.”

“Voglio il mio zio!” Nero replied, slapping his palm all over Vergil’s face to push him back. 

“I said _no_ , Nero.”

Lady was standing up, rubbing her own arms. “He loves Dante all right. What a handful.”

“Bath’s bloody,” Vergil said, praying Nero hadn’t picked up on the meaning of ‘blood’ in English yet.

“I’m not your maid, Vergil,” she snapped back. 

“That’s not--” Nero kneed him hard, inadvertantly hitting the very spot Dante had rammed the Yamato through earlier, and pain stole the rest of his words. He grunted and focused his attention back on Nero, until he’d pinned him and managed to meet his eyes. “You need to calm down. Ora. He’s all right.”

“Ma Zio Dante--”

“I know, little monster,” he interrupted, firm but soft. “I miss him too.” 

Vergil ran a hand through Nero’s hair, then picked him up and lumbered to his feet. Nero stayed stiff and silent, and Vergil caught the characteristic draft of a full diaper. Right. It _had_ been a while, and some things never stopped, no matter how much else happened. Vergil turned to Lady. 

“I’m only asking you to towel Dante and bring him back to bed. Is _that_ too much?”

Lady glared at him. “Thought you didn’t want me around.”

“Yet you were adamant you should stay,” he retorted, “and I can only carry so many Spardas at once.”

Nero lifted his head, pulled back enough to frown at him. “Le parole magiche,” he demanded, his scolding tone entirely too much like Vergil’s own. 

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between irritation at his child's timing, pride that he’d followed enough of the conversation to even pull this on him, and the now-familiar sensation of melting inside at how irresistible this tiny bundle of human could be.  “Not _now,_  Nero.”

“Ma devi… tutto il tempo! Say… say magic words!”

Lady burst out laughing the moment Nero switched to English and she could follow. “You tell him, Nero!”

“All right, all right!” Vergil exclaimed. “Can you _please_ take care of Dante?”

“Fine.” She raised a finger and pointed at him. “But I’ll have questions. A _lot_ of them.”

Vergil wished she’d keep them all to herself, but he doubted he’d escape Lady’s inquiries no matter how much he tried to dodge them. This had been the price (beyond the monetary one, of course) for calling upon her help, and the best he could do was prepare himself and decide what he didn’t want to share.

“I suspect we’ll have ample time.” To his great regret.

Lady walked past him with a nod, and Vergil wasted no time heading to the bedroom. She wouldn’t need that long to clean Dante off from blood and dry him sufficiently for bed, and Vergil would rather be done changing Nero by the time she arrived with his brother. Usually Nero helped him, aware of the routine (he was, in truth, old enough to no longer need the diapers, but whoever had come before Vergil clearly had _not_ cared to teach him; that ought to come soon, now that Nero and him managed to communicate). 

Tonight Nero only stared in silence, letting him do all the work, and Vergil had no idea what was wrong with him. It felt like the calm before the storm, like his little monster was holding it all in, waiting for the perfect occasion to spring a disaster tantrum. Vergil couldn’t help the scenarios running through his mind. Had Nero glimpsed their devil forms? Seen the blood in the bathroom? Could he have felt their demonic auras, like Vergil and Dante did each other’s? He didn’t seem worried or terrified anymore, not now that he accepted Dante was all right, but that was the thing… he’d been like this when Vergil had found him, too, surrounded by demons. Too calm. What if he finally understood what they were, Dante and him? 

Vergil sighed, secured the new diaper, pulled up the red PJs again, then sat Nero up. When he was on the dresser like this, he only needed to crouch a little to be eye level with him. “Nero… you know you’re safe here, right?”

Nero’s lips tightened and he swung his feet, looking at anywhere but Vergil. Then, “I wanna Zio Dante.”

No amount of demon healing could fix the vice of pain compressing Vergil’s stomach at that precise moment. He pressed his lips together and forced himself to inhale deeply. This was nothing but his imagination running. Nero wasn’t scared of him. They’d been together for almost two months now! Surely he knew better… 

“Soon, Nero.” He scanned the room for Nero’s marker, shook his head when he spotted it on the bed, and quickly handed it back to the child. “Dante may be asleep, however.”

_“I wanna Dante!”_ Nero repeated more forcefully, slapping the marker away. “ **DAN-TE!** ”

Vergil slammed the marker down on the dresser. “Screaming won’t make him arrive any faster, Nero!”

But then Nero’s face lit up and he scrambled to stand on the dresser with a joyful “Zio Dante!” as Lady stepped into the room, his brother slung over her shoulder like a potato bag. She raised her eyebrows at him--it was impossible she hadn’t heard them yelling--and dumped Dante unceremoniously on the bed. Nero leaped from the dresser to the bed, landing heavily on top of Dante’s legs and making both Vergil and Lady cringe. 

“Zioooo!” Nero called, clambering up to Dante’s face and flattening both cheeks under his hands. When Dante didn’t react, Nero called to him with irritation that bordered on the imperious. “Zio Dante!”

“He’s sleeping, kid,” Lady said.

“I warned you, Nero,” Vergil added.

“Svegliarlo!” Nero demanded, shaking Dante but glaring at Vergil--who had no idea what that word meant.

“He needs rest. Be reasonable and stop shaking him.” 

Vergil reached for Nero, but the child scrambled away with a loud “No!”, big blue eyes wide and wet. He stood on the bed, wiry body ready to bolt under his cozy red PJs, his hands into tiny fists. Vergil froze; he’d quickly learned when the slightest movement would send his horrible little tantrum beast running.

“Voglio. Zio. **Dante**!” Nero pointed at Dante and repeated, “Svegliarlo!”

Vergil stared at the tiny finger. ‘Svergliarlo’ obviously must have meant something like wake him or bring him back, neither of which he could _do_ at the time. If all the yelling hadn’t made Dante even crack his eyes open or mumble for them all to shut up, he was out for good. Which should by all means be positive news, but explaining this to Nero promised to be difficult at best.

“Nero--”

“No!” 

Nero stomped down, and the bounce from the bed almost knocked him off balance. He caught himself and released a torrent of angry Italian, speeding through the words fast, misarticulating half of them as he yelled. Vergil didn’t need to details to understand the gist of it, however: his son wanted Dante, he wanted him awake and laughing and playing, and he wanted him _now_. But then there was a shift, and Vergil caught words like _proteggere_ , _mostro_ , and _male_ , and Nero was pointing accusingly at him through it all, repeating “lo so”. Vergil’s throat tightened as he pieced together the meaning--the confirmation that Nero had pinned him down as a monster from which Dante could protect him. 

It was, under the circumstances, impressive that Nero dared face him, all anger and pride as he demanded to have his chosen guardian awakened, and as the floor faded under Vergil's feet and the world seemed to close down on his lungs, crushing his breath out, it occurred to Vergil how terribly like _himself_ it was, how much Nero had never acted as much like his son as he did now, burying his fears to defiantly reject him.

Too bad Nero had only one father, and no choice of which he wanted.

Vergil gritted his teeth and forced a breath in. He was used to rejection. He could handle this one, too, could ignore the way his exhausted mind seemed to crack and bend, how his head felt hot and the rest of his body cold, how he could barely hear Nero anymore, through all the dull buzz in his skull. Vergil held himself tight and raised his chin, letting none of it show--not now, with Lady watching and Nero hurling Italian at him still, and preferably never. Years of discipline ignoring all-too-human emotions were put to the grind, until he found the strength to snap in a steady and cold voice.

_“Enough, Nero.”_

Silence fell, the unbidden layers of demonic command in his tone catching Nero off-guard. Then Nero sprinted off the bed, leaping with surprising speed and agility, before dashing for--shit, the bathroom. The blood-soaked, utterly ruined bathroom in which he used to hide.

Vergil didn’t think twice; he unleashed more power, drawing upon his reserves to warp across his flat and land in Nero’s way. The child skidded to a stop with a yelp, giving Vergil no time to catch him, and went right back to the bedroom, pushing past Lady just as she was running out. Nero slammed the door close.

“Stai lontano!” he yelled through the door. “Stay!”

Lady stared at the door, then back at Vergil. “You’re really shit at family relationships, aren’t you?”

"It would seem so."

It was too late to fix this now. Nero had holed himself up, but he had a clean diaper and he was in the same room as Dante, so all things considered, it wasn't a catastrophic situation. Or perhaps Vergil was too exhausted, too used to this sort of tantrums to care anymore. Anything he tried would feel like a threat to Nero and might only widen the considerable chasm between them. Let Nero hate him tonight. No one was dying in the household, and that ought to be enough for now. 

Vergil eyed the couch longingly. He'd snatched a few hours of sleep here and there over the last two days, but never in his bed and never anything but fitful bursts that barely kept him standing. Between the chores, the worry, and the fights (verbal with Nero, physical with Dante), his body was entirely wrung out, aching with a bone deep exhaustion he hadn't felt since leaving the Temen-ni-gru. His chest throbbed where the Yamato had gone in, but he was too spent to heal any more than he already had. Nothing short of actual sleep could help him there, he knew from experience. But Vergil didn't care for the couch. He wanted to curl in bed, arms around Nero's warm body, the child's regular breathe a soft balm on the day's trials, a reminder that for all of their endless fights, his son trusted him. That was gone now, and he couldn't bear to think about how it'd affect them or what he'd just lost, not here with Dante's friend watching--not where anyone might see the inevitable break in his composure. He had to keep moving--keep working until nothing else could occupy his thoughts. Good thing the bathroom needed to be cleaned.

Vergil cast one last look at the bedroom's door before forcibly turning away and entering the disaster scene that was now his bathroom. He grabbed his now-always-ready cleaning kit from the closet, almost glad it'd be put to use on blood in lieu of fecal matters this time, and started with the worst: the bath itself. When he noticed Lady hovering at the door, he scowled.

“Feel free to let yourself out,” he said. The last thing he needed right now was her antagonistic mockeries.

Instead, Lady walked in and settled against the only clean wall, crossing her arms. Not leaving, then. Was she going to simply watch him clean? Splendid. But she _had_ warned him she'd have questions.

“You’re leaving him alone in there?” she asked, jerking her chin towards the bedroom.

“The worst he can do is draw over everything with the marker and…” Vergil gestured at the walls all around, marked even here. “That is a fight I have already conceded.”

“Fair. Is he always like this?”

“Yes.” That was untrue. They had been doing better recently, enough that Vergil could perceive a future where his life was no longer a succession of pointless fights with Nero. “No. He often is, but he’s exhausted and scared, even moreso now. This is… worse.”

Perhaps even _the_ worst. No matter how ragged Nero had run him before or how much liquid shit the child had managed to spread all over the flat, nothing had ever been so personal. Vergil gritted his teeth and focused on picking up broken ceramic from the bottom of his bath.

Lady's gaze could have burned a whole new hole in his back, so intent it was, yet her tone remained entirely casual when she moved to the next question.

"Where's his mom?"

"Dead, I must presume."

Lady's hand twitch towards her waist, her breath came in a sharp intake. Vergil knew enough of her history to guess the unspoken question.

"Not through my doing,” he said, picking up a particularly big piece of ceramic broken off. “I'm _not_ Arkham."

“Could’ve fooled me,” Lady shot back, venom in her voice. “Selfish asshole ready to sacrifice his own family for some shit demon power? Sounds about right for the two of you.”

The ceramic shattered in his hand as his grip tightened on it, Vergil squeezing harder with every word. She didn’t understand--none of them did. But what did it matter? He didn’t owe Lady an explanation, nor did he care to give her one. Let her judge all she wanted. Sparda’s power had always rightfully belonged to him, and he’d needed it--still did, really, for the day demons came for Nero again. Vergil gritted his teeth and set his expression into a sneer, turning his head just enough to shoot her a withering glare.

“I don’t waste breath exalting the evils of men,” he said, giving the word ‘evil’ the horrifyingly annoying inflexion Arkham always had and raising one finger. “I only sought my rightful inheritance.” He raised a second one. “And, more importantly, I _never_ dressed as a clown.” The third finger came up, and with it his mouth quirked in a smirk. “Even I have my limits.”

A shocked laugh escaped Lady, and she pushed herself off the wall. “He never cleaned shit, either.” 

She picked up one of the many rags, dipped it in his soapy water, and slapped it against the wall. Vergil stared, fighting against a wave of confusion. “What are you doing?”

“It’s gonna be boring watching you scrub blood all night. I figured I’d help.”

“No.” Lady entering his flat had been strange and unwelcome, but manageable. Lady actually cleaning his bathroom after he’d brawled with Dante inside the bath, both of them in demon form, was beyond acceptable level of strange. He would rather do it all alone. He sniffed derisively and threw back her own words at her. “You’re not my maid.”

“And you’re not my boss, so fuck off if you think you can tell me what to do.”

“This is my home!” He protested, only to force some calm back into his tone. “If I’m not your boss, then I’m certainly not paying for any voluntary cleaning. You do this on your own time.”

Lady laughed again, the sound sharp and pleased, like a recognition of a game well-played. “Here I was hoping you’d be as easy to swindle as Dante.” She shrugged, gave the rag a quick spin, then added, “As long as you pay for the antidote, as promised.”

Vergil stared as she turned back to the work at hand, half-convinced she’d decided to do this precisely because it irked him. No one should touch the utter mess his flat had become. He wasn’t a shameless slob like Dante: he cleaned after himself. Arguing with Lady to stop her would mean expanding a lot of energy to end up with even _more_ work to do, however, and he did not have that in him, not anymore. He gritted his teeth, reluctantly accepting the hit to his pride, and returned to the task at hand. Tonight was already a nightmare, anyway; he might as well accept it wouldn't get any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated and gave Vergil's regular DT a demon tail. COULDN'T HELP IT, IT'S JUST TOO CUTE. 
> 
> We have just one chapter to go now (for *this* fic, not this universe), and I promise if you just hold on it'll all be all right haha. XD


	7. Demon Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante's fever finally breaks, and the Sparda twins try to reconcile Nero with their demon heritage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Time to fix everything I shattered to pieces last time around with some intense cuteness ~

If Dante's body could stop being in constant pain, that'd be great. How was this whole burning poison thing fair at all? He was half-demon! He should shrug the heck out of that shit and walk it off with a laugh (that's _always_ what he'd done before, anyway, and it was really uncool for the world to deprive him of it now). At least the fever was gone. And, honestly, he'd take the sore back and throbbing legs over the pure searing agony he last remembered. Something was healing all right--it just wasn't doing it anywhere near fast enough for Dante (which wasn't saying much considering his lack of patience).

There was _one_ (just one!) good thing about this, a little bundle of love who slept right against his chest, clutching his deadly black marker. The kiddo was just too cute; he had a little frown on, his brow knitting in a way strikingly like Vergil's. Gosh, sometimes it almost hurt how obvious it was that Nero was his son, like Dante could catch glimpses of a remembered childhood, back when his brother had been stubborn and brilliant and prideful, but not obsessed and arrogant and cruel (back when neither of them had needed to crystallize the best and worst of themselves to survive). Nero was like a soft, giggling reminder that life didn't have to be all demons and fighting, that even pizza could be improved upon by the simple addition of good company.

Thinking of food caused his stomach to protest with a long grumble, and Dante had to agree with it: he was hungry (he rarely disagreed with his stomach, honestly; they understood each other). Besides, a pale greyish light was making it through Vergil's blue ( _of course_ they were blue) curtains, and it looked like dawn. Which meant he'd skipped quite a few meals, unless he'd forgotten being fed again. He hoped not. It was weird as hell to think Vergil might have held him steady like that, but that was the kind of weird Dante could learn to love, because it meant under his crusty exterior, Vergil didn't hate him all that much. At least he hoped so. Always hard to tell with him, but Dante _was_ in his brother's bed, with his brother's son wrapped around him, and that had to count for something, right?

He'd bet he could even get Vergil to make him breakfast, on account of him being sick and all. Dante grinned and slowly sat up, holding Nero so the kid wouldn't slide off him too brutally. Blue eyes immediately fluttered open with a mumbled "Zio Dante?"

"Aye kiddo. Awake and kickin'."

"Zio!" 

Nero threw himself back on Dante and flung his arms around his neck, squeezing so hard Dante was half-convinced the kid wanted to strangle him. There'd been something weird in his voice, like fear or relief tainting the usual undiluted joy. Dante pried him off with a frown.

"Woah there, lil' fella. Is something wrong?"

Nero sniffled as he looked back at him, big blue eyes full of worry, and tiny knots of fear appeared in Dante's stomach. Something was super wrong, and that was a look the kid normally kept for Vergil (both as the source and solution to most problems), and Dante just… just didn't know if he could do _this_ , be anything else than the goof uncle Nero could have fun with. He almost called for Vergil right there and then, but then Nero pointed at the door and started spilling the beans.

Dante caught "Deviamo partire" and then absolutely nothing, but even without a scrap of Italian he could hear the urgency and fear in his nephew's tone. Nero kept his voice hushed, as if terrified the universe would hear him, and for all his obvious agitation, Dante wondered if many kids his age would've that self-control. He set a hand on the tiny shoulder, hoping to calm him even more.

"Slow down there, my bud. Ya got any English in that big brain of yours?”

Nero stilled and his face screwed up in concentration. “Monsters. We… partire!” He pointed at the door again.

 _Monsters_. Had demons come calling after all? Shit, Vergil _had_ said something about them tracking poisoned prey, hadn’t he? Where was he, then? If Dante was a homing beacon, Vergil would’ve dumped him in the streets or gotten Nero away somehow (as he should have). The longer Dante took to answer, the more agitated Nero grew, so he squeezed the shoulder and smiled at him.

“It’s okay, Nero. I fight monsters.” The kid got that, because his face brightened and he seemed to relax. Dante scanned the surroundings for a weapon and held back a soft curse when he noticed the Yamato was gone from its usual spot. “Where’s Vergil?”

That got him more confusion, so Dante ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back in Vergil’s ridiculous hairstyle and repeated “Vergil?”

Fear shot through Nero and he pulled back, falling on his bum in Dante’s lap, amplifying the low throb in his legs and drawing a chuckle out of him (best to laugh than to dwell too soon on how something had obviously happened to Vergil while he was knocked out, and it would be his fault, and he really didn’t know how to feel about that).

“Yeah, I know, we look scary alike when I do that,” he said.

Nero must have hated it, because he reverted to speed-Italian and stringing choppy sentences together, his voice increasingly loud. Dante tried his best to follow, and caught ‘mostro’ often enough to decide he should stop listening and start finding what needed to be killed. New plan: first, reassure the kiddo; two, stab some demons. Dante hushed Nero, ruffled his soft white hair, and met his eyes.

“I got ya, kid. Let’s get stabbing.”

“I’m the one he’s afraid of, Dante.”

Vergil’s voice sliced through the morning, tight, controlled, and cold. Nero yelped as he heard it, then scrambled all around Dante to half-hide behind his arm. Dante scowled, his chest tightening hard and fast, his protective instincts flaring. He told himself Vergil would never hurt the kid, that he loved Nero more than he’d ever loved anything else, but his nephew was cowering behind him and Vergil was… well… Vergil. Dante shifted to provide better cover for Nero, his gaze never leaving Vergil.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“What did _I_ \--” Vergil cut himself short, but his entire body stiffened into a rod of tension, the storm contained inside. “Has fever addled your memory once more? I adopted my demon form to contain _you_ , Dante, and now Nero knows what I am, and he, of course, believes you’re his guardian angel.”

Vergil flung the words with as much sneer as he could muster, like this was one more absurd prank Dante was pulling on him, too trivial to affect him. It was kind of a pathetic front, really, and Dante wondered why he was even bothering with it--until Lady’s voice carried from the living room.

“They awake? Tell Dante he owes me his life, and he better pay up one day.”

Vergil tilted his head in her direction and snapped back, “You’re already getting paid.”

“Still no fun, huh?”

“Woah, timeout!” Dante called, spreading his arms out. “Why the fu--fudge is Lady here? What d’ya mean, contain me? And--Nero, what are you--” The child had started pulling on his arm and shoulder, repeating his ‘deviamo partire’ again and again, forcefully. Dante scooped him up and set him down on his lap, holding him firmly when he tried to squirm away. “It’s fine, Nero. I’m here. You’re scared of demons, ain’t ya?”

Nero faced him and tilted his chin up. “No! I… No fear!”

Dante laughed. That was his little Sparda boy, all right. But if this kid was like Vergil, then there was only one way to get him to admit he was afraid: a demonstration. Dante reached within, to the power always thrumming inside, dormant for so long and yet so familiar, so utterly a part of himself, and he pulled the demon out, allowing wings and claws and red ridges to emerge, his entire body reshaping in luminous sparks as power flowed through it.

“Dante!” Vergil snapped, alarm and anger mixing in. 

Nero paled and scrambled back on all fours, tripping, absolutely and positively terrified. _Fuck_. But Vergil had said he thought Dante could protect him! Dante leaned forward, trying to catch the toddler, but Nero just half-stumbled, half-fell out of the bed and sprinted for the door. “Wait, Nero!”

Vergil stepped back and let him run out, glaring at Dante. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I thought-- _You_ look scary as a demon; I’m just cool!”

“You’re an idiot no matter the form, that’s certain,” Vergil retorted, before turning heels and going after Nero. Dante hurried out of bed and followed, his claws tinking on the ground as he did.

Nero had wormed his way into Lady’s arms, still sputtering Italian, which she seemed positively discomfited about. She stood in the middle of the living room, a few books strewn around the ground and a striking absence of guns about her person. When Dante stepped out, she burst out laughing. “Really, Dante? S’that why he’s all over me screaming?”

“He had not even _seen_ the devil forms, Dante,” Vergil said by his side. “I believe he can… sense us, after a fashion. Now he’s terrified of both of us.”

Dante offered a shrug. Too late for regrets now. “Oops?”

Lady considered both of them for a time. “This is nonsense. He’s your kid. We can’t have this afraid-of-you bullshit. Shift, Vergil.”

“What?” He stepped back from them, glaring at Lady.

“I’m holding him tight. Just shift and get it over with.”

“ _No_. He’s already--” Vergil inhaled, deep and slow, an obvious attempt to wash the anguish out of his voice (and it worked, somehow, because when he spoke again, it was entirely too casual; how did he even manage that?). “I have no desire for Nero to grow even more scared of me.”

“He’ll tell you he’s not afraid,” Dante said, but the kid flinched at the weird echo of his own voice. “C’mon, lil’ fella. Zio Dante wouldn’t hurt ya.”

Nero’s tiny fists tightened on Lady’s white vest, but he half-turned to look at Dante. “Zio..?”

“Yeah! This is my demon fighting form, kiddo.” He spread his arms out and let the wings flare, before turning to Vergil. “I think Lady’s got the right idea. You totally should show him yours, brother.”

Vergil pressed his lips together. Poor dude was practically radiating anxious energy. Who would’ve ever thought Vergil could get self-conscious about his prized demon powers? This kid was really doing a number on him (in a really good way, if you asked Dante). At length, Vergil sighed and haltingly said something in Italian to Nero, before closing his eyes. 

A familiar cold pulse of power washed over Dante--his heart leaped and his hands twitched, all too eager for a fight (all too used to having them), and Vergil began to shift, the transformation surprisingly slow. Shit, his brother really had a lot more control over this stuff than he did! His bare feet turned into small clawed toes, dark blue scales replacing the skin, then his pants seemed to fold into tight armour-like ridges over black scales, the triangular pattern coming up to his chest where blue light shone softly. From his back emerged a long, flicking tail of thick scales. Vergil’s expression stayed one of utter concentration as he formed wings, the darker shapes folded over him in a manner reminiscent of his usual coat, then he let the Yamato’s sheath appear along his forearm, sending sparks of blue energy flying around. He paused, and with a slight smirk, he ran a hand over his face then into his hair, allowing the demon to form as it passed, as if the touch itself had changed him. 

“Here you go, Nero,” he said, demon energy distorting his otherwise soft voice. “Demon dad.”

Vergil crouched down, his wings sliding backward so they wouldn’t scrape against the ground, and he extended a clawed hand, the movement hesitant. His tail twitched nervously behind. Dante had to shut down his urges to fight or push or provoke him in any other way. He just looked too _vulnerable_ like that, and all that power pulsing right through Dante was clamouring it was wrong, and needed to be fixed, and _now._ He started tapping his foot, trying to get some of his energy overload out, but soon his wings were flapping on their own, too.

“Come and see, Nero,” Dante said.

Nero stared between the two of them, wide blue eyes shining. He squirmed and Lady set him down, but he remained there, unmoving. 

“You want me to go first?” she asked. Nero looked back at her hesitantly, so she crossed the living room in three quick strides, stopped next to Vergil, and leaned on him, setting her elbow on his horns. Dante snickered as Vergil tilted his head up, glowering, and she completely ignored him. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Nero? How old are you?”

Briefly, Nero’s gaze flicked to Vergil, who repeated the question in Italian (Italian totally sounded like some bullshit incantation with the demon voice distortion on, it was _awesome_ ). 

“Tre,” Nero said, and he raised three fingers. 

Lady’s smile stiffened. “ _Three_! Of course. Nothing wrong there with the maths at all.”

Was it just Dante or was she suddenly leaning a lot more heavily on Vergil? He raised a hand to push her back, but she tsked at him--so yeah, she was getting some good mileage while he couldn’t counter. Vergil’s tail flicked across the ground, betraying his irritation.

“I didn’t know about him,” he let out through gritted teeth.

Lady patted his head. “Whatever, demon dad.” She bent forward and started pinching the two collar-like ridges of scales around his neck. “You look like a dork. We should get you a flower necklace.”

Dante burst out laughing just as Vergil retorted “Absolutely not.”

“And you!” Lady spun around to face him, her grin widening. “What’s with all the spikes, Dante? The fire core? And your hair up like that behind a mask?” She walked up to him and straight up poked his nose before spinning on herself and leaning her entire body against his, arms spread wide. Total disrespect (which was the point, he got it, but it was funnier when she was doing it to Vergil). “I hope you don’t think _that_ looks cool, Dante.”

“Cooler than you, Miss Big Guns. You say all this, but all I hear is--” Dante grabbed Lady by the waist and lifted her, easily placing her on his shoulders. “--I want a lift!” 

Her head thumped on the ceiling on the way, and she rubbed it with a grimace. “Watch it, Dante!”

Dante was about to argue about it being all her fault for leaning on him like that when a tiny giggle echoed in the living room. Nero had made it about halfway through the living room, and he was staring right up at Lady, his mouth half-open, fear slowly turning into wonder. Dante grinned at him and released her; she held on with her thighs.

“C’mon, kid, get your ride,” he said, and he pointed to Vergil.

Nero turned towards Vergil and paused there. They stared at each other, the silence thicker and more oppressive than any of their demon auras could ever hope to be. The slow flap of Dante’s wings sped up (he really needed to work on his control, but the devil trigger made him dizzy and restless; it had too many bad memories tied to it and he kinda hated it, most of the time, even if it was damn powerful and cool). _C’mon, kiddo_ , he thought.

Nero took one hesitant step back. Dante cursed inwardly; Vergil turned so tense he might be about to break, and his cold aura seemed to slither backward, as if coalescing around him in a tight, protective hug. Nero stopped, then, and frowned. Vergil extended a hand out again, moving each of his tiny claws (they really were smaller than Dante’s, more finesse than power, it was almost cute).

“Allow me to be your ride, Nero,” he declared, his tone all too solemn. 

Nero bit his lower lip, then his eyebrows knitted in a small determined frown, and he sprinted forward. Vergil’s aura uncoiled as he caught his son, and even through the rigidly menacing expression of his demon form, Dante caught the hint of a smile as he lifted him up, bringing Nero to sit behind his horns and standing up in one smooth movement. The flight drew another laugh from the kid, who then flattened his flat palms on top of Vergil’s white horns, his feet kicking with joy.

Lady bent backwards, releasing Dante to fall off and land on her hands, before gracefully flipping. Dante released his demon form (it was making him jittery, all that unspent power) as she walked back around and leaned on him with a satisfied smile. Which, seriously, what _was_ she doing here being nice with Vergil? Maybe he’d died and this was another universe or some other bullshit (this was not a complaint, definitely not, Universe), but he couldn’t wait to hear how _that_ had happened.

In front of them, Nero threw his arms up “Sono alto!”

Vergil tilted his head back to some extent. “The tallest of all,” he said. “Can you reach the ceiling, Nero?” He pointed at it, but when Nero extended a hand, his fingers came short. So he did the only logical thing: he brought his feet under him, on Vergil’s shoulders, and stood up, his balance precarious.

“Go go, Nero!” Dante raised a fist in encouragement, and Lady joined in with a laugh.

“Show that ceiling who’s boss, kid.”

Vergil caught the tiny feet as they moved to his horns, wrapping his hands around the thin ankles, but he said nothing while Nero climbed on him and stretched up. Dante did his best to commit this to memory, because he wouldn’t let Vergil get away with allowing his son to step all over his demon head without some mocking (just, not now, but definitely soon). 

Nero brushed the ceiling with his fingers and squealed. “Ho fatto! Ho fatto!”

He bent forward, kneeled, then started climbing down Vergil’s face, putting tiny feet on his nose and collar and shoulders, giving absolutely no care to what he was stepping on. Vergil sputtered and caught him, momentarily interrupting the descent. 

“Little monster, what are you--”

“I wanna touch,” Nero declared, before slapping his palm across Vergil’s cheek.

Vergil froze, his two hands tight around Nero, turning completely still as Nero started exploring his face slowly, fingers gliding over his scales or pulling at his lips. The kid seemed utterly absorbed by it, and once he’d gone all over the horns and cheeks, he moved to the collar then clambered down to Vergil’s chest. He grabbed just about everything he could, sometimes hitting or pulling at a ridge as a test. Vergil’s wings twitched when he tapped them, drawing an excited squeal out of him. 

“You enjoy them?” Vergil asked, and he spread them out, allowing the dawn’s light to catch on its inside and give it a blue sheen. Nero stretched his fingers towards them, and Vergil brought them back closer, in their coat-like position. 

Tiny hands immediately grabbed the wings, then Nero jumped off Vergil, holding to nothing but the slippery scales. Vergil hissed in surprise and set a quick knee down, following the movement, and Dante couldn’t help wonder which part of his wings hurt. They looked thick, same as his, but Nero might have pulled at where they joined with Vergil’s back with his stunt. The kid was grinning, and the moment his feet touched the ground he ran to Vergil’s tail and wrapped his arms around it.

“Nero…” There was a thread of laughter in Vergil’s voice, and he wrapped his tail around the child, bringing him back to the front. The demon scales slowly resorbed into his skin, ridges turning into regular clothes, horns becoming hair once more. He caught Nero mid-transformation and held him close, fingers gently brushing through the white hair, and his shoulders slumped. Exhaustion had sunken his eyes in, and Dante could’ve sworn he’d swayed for a moment. Nero twisted his fist into Vergil’s shirt with a pout, as if that could bring the demon back. “Are you hungry?”

"I'm hungry!" Dante exclaimed. "Starving! Could eat a whole pile of pizza boxes all by myself!"

Cold blue eyes turned to him. "I wasn't asking you, Dante."

"But my stomach is _crying_ ," Dante whined, casually striding to Vergil and throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Surely you wouldn't let your lil' brother die of hunger! I just got through all that poison."

Vergil rolled his eyes, picked Dante's hand up, and removed the whole arm. "Perhaps I ought to have let you perish from it after all."

"You don't mean that." 

Dante pouted--or tried to. He managed to hold it for one big second before he broke into a grin. Vergil complaining about his existence was just a normal thing for them, with no real bite to it. With the demon form washing away, he was starting to feel woozy and the throbbing pain insisted on making a comeback, but Dante didn't care. He'd get over it soon enough, and it sounded like they had quite a story to tell him, and if Vergil joked about letting him die (those _were_ jokes, he was sure of it), then Dante was back in his good graces. Might only last until his next accidental swear, but he'd take it.

Vergil didn't bother to reply to him, but he was already heading to the kitchens, so Dante decided to call that a victory. He turned to Lady. "You're eating with us, right?" he asked. "If he let ya stay the night you're practically family."

Lady's tongue-in-cheek answer died on her lips, and Vergil's head snapped up, even though he kept his back to them. She glared at Dante (what had he said _this time_?) then gave a casual shrug. "Guess that can be my payment for all the cleaning."

Vergil scoffed. "I was exceedingly clear that you'd receive no such thing."

"A bonus for the speedy delivery of a much needed antidote, then?"

Vergil turned, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I suppose I could live with that… _if_ \--"

"Ah, of course," Lady let out, throwing a dangerous grin back at him.

" _If_ you put our nightly research back where it belongs. Books left on the ground in this house are liable to end on the wrong end of Nero's marker."

"A tragedy," Lady commented, as if it was anything but. Still, she didn't even argue with it. She just kicked up the books and caught them like it was the most natural thing in the world--like she and Vergil playfully agreeing with one another wasn't an absolute mindfuck.

On the one hand, he had spent a whole month coming up with the worst excuses for why he couldn't do stuff with Lady on Spardaghetti day, straining his poor shit-at-deception brain, only for Vergil and Lady to buddy up while he wasn't looking, and that was just uncool. On the other hand, the closest thing he'd ever had to a best friend had decided not to try and kill his less-than-stellar but not- _that_ -evil brother, and he could kinda live with that (by which he meant he could act like the warm butterflies in his stomach as he settled at Vergil's table weren't the most cutesy, tooth-aching sweet sensation he'd ever felt, and keep to the casual front he'd always kept).

"You keep arguing over money like that and the kid's gonna die of hunger,” he said. His stomach grumbled. Lady laughed and placed her book on a nearby shelf.

"The kid's you, isn't it?" she said.

"Isn't it always?" Vergil asked, setting down his son on the counter.

"I'm not… kid," Nero declared, crossing his arms with a pout.

"Nero!" Dante declared, false outrage in his voice. "I thought you were on my side!"

Vergil set a large plastic bowl in front of his kid, who promptly grabbed it to hold it steady, the routine clearly well practiced.

"Of course not," Vergil said, before scooping Nero's cheek in a casual gesture and landing a quick peck on the kid's forehead. "He's my son."

Jibes about Nero's future teenage years and countless fights formed in Dante's mind and died there. He didn't have it in him to kill the easy love Vergil had just displayed, kissing Nero like that. Even the kid seemed stunned: he was staring at his dad, gaping, his tiny hands gripping the bowl tight. Vergil finished retrieving all his ingredients--he'd put ham and eggs and spinach on the counter, along with a bunch of stuff Dante suspected he wanted to do a batter with--then he piled a bunch of dishes in the sink to give himself room. Despite the fatigue weighing his movements, he moved with a grace and precision reflecting years of discipline and training. Dante settled back into his chair, content to watch the slow creation of his breakfast while the pale light of dawn turned into bright rays.

 

###

 

On his own, Dante could produce enough noise to thoroughly exhaust Vergil, but combined with Lady and Nero, the entire breakfast had been a mix of laughter, quick jabs at each other, and long overdue explanations. 

Vergil hadn’t planned on telling Lady any details about Nero--when he’d called her, it had felt like the less she knew, the better--but after a night spent detailing his conclusions about the antidote and exchanging about various demons, he found himself reevaluating his opinion of her. He’d assumed she was an emotional hothead, competent but driven by untrustworthy feelings, but she’d demonstrated a keen mind, acute self-control, and resourcefulness through every interaction. In truth, Vergil suspected she was more reliable than his brother could ever be. Then Dante had called her practically family, and for some obscure reason, it had felt… right. Lady was privy to more of his life than anyone _but_ family now, and she’d seen more of him than he’d ever cared to show outsiders. Perhaps family wasn’t exact, but he found he did not resent her presence in his life at all. So he explained how he’d found Nero and what little he knew, eschewing only the details of how his son had wound up with his name.

After that, he let her answer Dante’s questions about last night while he cut Nero’s second pancake into smaller bits he could easily pick up with his fork. This child was already eating more than Vergil himself, and he wondered if it was growth spurts, or if it was tied to demon blood; Dante certainly seemed to have no end to his stomach. He scarfed down several pancakes, filling each to the brim with ham and cheese, stuffing them in with his hands instead of using proper utensils. Vergil had to scold him more than once for speaking with his mouth full again, and he just _knew_ Nero would be doing the same soon enough--he was already setting down his fork to use his hands, too. Vergil stopped him and glared at Dante, who reluctantly picked up his own fork. 

It was, all in all, a return to normal, or what now passed as such in Vergil’s life--a reverse Spardaghetti, really, considering they both stayed after the meal, Dante finally giving Nero the brawl he’d been asking for all along while Lady cheered Nero on and gave him advice. Vergil caught her looking his way more than once while he cleaned, enough that he could hear the unspoken question about needing help, so he shook his head. It was unsettling enough that she’d helped with the blood in the bathroom, he didn’t think he could bear Lady giving him a hand with more regular chores. 

The longest part of their departure turned out to be Lady returning every single gun and ammunition to its rightful place, under increasingly impressed whistles from Dante. Nero had tried to reach for one of the guns, so Vergil had scooped him up and held him before he grabbed anything he shouldn’t and started playing with it like a toy. It must have taken Lady a good half hour to get everything back in place--then Dante just flung his red cloak over and called himself ready.

"This is what they don't tell ya with the whole 'girls getting ready' jokes," he said. "They're storing up guns as much as makeup."

Lady rolled her eyes. "You make that joke every damn time, Dante."

"That's how you know it's a good one!"

Lady turned to Vergil with a silent 'have you heard this shit?' look. It was agreeable to know someone else could barely tolerate Dante's particular brand of humour, and Vergil offered a 'what can we do?' shrug in return. Nero understood it as a signal to start squirming and stretch his arms towards Dante.

"I wanna hug!"

That was new. Vergil shifted him around, allowing Dante to take him. When Nero had first arrived, he'd barely touched Vergil, keeping his distance unless it was to fight back about something. He hadn't minded being handled, as far as Vergil could tell, but it was for the most part something people did to him, not something he asked for. When he clung to them, it was out of worry more than anything else. Yet now he threw his arms around Dante's neck and squeezed tight while Dante rubbed his back, both of them clearly happy with the new development. Vergil stomped down his renewed spikes of jealousy and turned to Lady.

"I may call again, should I require assistance in acquiring anything."

Lady snorted. "I ain't getting your eggs and milk, demon dad."

Vergil rolled his eyes. That was not remotely what he'd meant, of course, yet he suspected that if he paid the appropriate fee, Lady would be more than happy to drop by with even the most mundane grocery. Before he could form a proper answer, Nero pulled back from Dante to look at her hesitantly. She smiled at him and ruffled his hair.

"It's all right, kiddo. I won't get mad if ya don't hug me." She extended a gloved hand and added, "Was nice meeting you."

Nero's eyes widened and he turned to Vergil, his brows knitting in the infamous confused-but-too-proud-to-admit face. "Prendi la sua mano e… shake it?” Vergil mimed it to help. “It's to say hi or goodbye."

With a deep frown of concentration, Nero reached for Lady’s hand, grabbed her fingers, and shook them hard and fast. She burst out laughing, which clearly startled him, then slowed the movement to show him, making the handshake last much longer than necessary. 

“Good job, kid,” she said, releasing his hand. “Keep your dad in line, will ya?”

Nero stared back, then turned his head back towards Vergil. “Da’?”

“Yeah, him,” Lady replied, and then Dante was handing Nero back. 

Vergil took him reflexively, but his head had started ringing, Nero's question startling him. Why had he even needed to ask? Did his child not… Had he not known? His throat tightened as he looked back to the last two months together, searching for a single moment when he’d explained who he was to Nero. He’d promised to keep him safe, had brought him home, had introduced Dante as an uncle, even, but… Vergil’s grip on Nero tightened and he sighed. He’d gotten so taken by the chores and tantrums, he’d forgotten to tell Nero why he was here with him now--that they _were_ related.

He barely noticed Dante and Lady leaving, his mind wrapped up in all the ways he kept failing Nero. He had been so convinced it would be a simple matter of feeding and cleaning him while keeping the demons away, but every day Nero wrenched more out of him, made him want to go the extra step, to make the little monster _happy_. It wasn’t just the meals and laundry--those, Vergil could handle. But living with Nero was also letting him choose his clothes, teaching him to use a fork, encouraging him to draw and playing with him; it was trying to understand what he needed as a _child_ , an irrational bundle of half-formed logics and strong emotions, and with that? With that, Vergil was lost, completely unmoored and terrified of his repeated mistakes.

He still had a good hour to go before Nero’s usual nap time. Perhaps he could fix some of this. It’d help if he knew where to start… Vergil dragged his feet back to the living room and sat cross-legged in the middle of it, on the spot Dante often occupied when he wound up brawling with the child, and he set Nero down. His son stared back, silent, slightly hunched on himself. Vergil wondered what went on behind his sky blue eyes, how much he understood of the world around--if he even grasped what _family_ meant, or if that was something he’d build over time. 

“Nero…” How did one even start this conversation? “Do you… do you know what a father is?”

Nero hesitated, balancing his body back and forth. After a tense silence, he pointed at Vergil. “Da’?”

“Yes.” He made a poor example of it, really, but that was a correct answer. “Fathers… Fathers should love you and protect you. You know these words, Nero? Amare e proteggere.”

In a perfect world, they did so for more than a few key years. In a perfect world, they never vanished, leaving a weak human mother behind, their power sealed away and their enemies eager for revenge. Vergil gritted his teeth, fighting back memories from his childhood, of Sparda playing with them, showing them his own devil form, wings buzzing, or calling them back for dinner. Of his first sword training lesson, the Yamato still taller than him, a prize for him to aim for. Vergil had never learned what had happened to Sparda, only that he hadn’t been there when it mattered most--a mistake he never wanted to reproduce. 

He reached for Nero’s tiny hands and ignored the child’s very confused expression. He was confused, too--confused by the way his stomach churned, by the tears fighting their way ever upward, by the protective swirl of demon energy rising with them. Vergil hated when he felt _so much_ at once, like his entire body was rioting, wrenching control away from him.

“I promise to stay, Nero. To-to do my best.” He played with the tiny fingers, forcing a deep breath in, calming the swirl of his thoughts. Nero was so beautiful, so kind still, as if despite everything the world had yet to taint him. To think this little monster was _his_ … “I am your father, but more importantly… I  _want_ to be your father.”

Nero stared at him, brow pinched in a thoughtful expression, and Vergil could barely hold his gaze. Then a beautiful smile spread across his face, smoothing away all the lines of worry, and he threw his arms up in victorious joy. “Ho un padre! You’re… you’re _da_ ’. You… stay.”

Intense awe filled his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, and Vergil once again found himself wondering who had been in charge of him, before the demons came. He ran his fingers over Nero’s round cheeks, his heart hammering, his throat so tight he could barely speak.

“Always, Nero." Inwardly, he prayed that he could hold such a promise, that no matter what, he would stay. "I’ll always be there for you.” 

Nero threw himself into Vergil’s arms, stunning him into breathlessness. Vergil held him tight, squeezing his eyes shut to fight the tears still threatening to spill. What had he done to deserve this boy? He counted down the seconds, slowly steadying himself. Nero had so brutally rejected him yesterday, Vergil had felt like he was coming apart. And now… He never wanted to forget this hug. “Would you like to hear a story, Nero? It’s an important one.”

Nero looked up, then drew back enough to touch his cheek with a determined frown. “I wanna demon.”

The contact sent a jolt of warmth through Vergil, but he hesitated. The slow transformation earlier had taken a lot out of him, and he hadn’t slept more than a few stolen hours over the last two days. He could barely hold himself together now--how exhausted would he become after another devil trigger? But he only needed to think of Nero’s tiny fingers on his skin right now, of the soft and curious way he’d explored the scales earlier, fascinated more than scared, and his resistance melted away. He set his forehead against Nero’s.

“All right, little monster,” he said.

His demon power pooled with practiced ease, and Vergil released it all at once this time, changing in one burst of energy and blue sparkles. Nero burst into a fit of giggles and immediately grabbed at his scaled skin, pushing against it. He ran his hands over Vergil’s face for a moment before losing interest and turning to the much less-explored chest. He started digging at the ridges there with his fingers, and Vergil had to stiffle a laugh at the tickling sensation. While Nero continued playing with the demon form, Vergil slid over to the side, so he could lean against the couch.

“Are you listening?” he asked.

Nero’s head jolted up and he nodded. “Ascolto la storia!” he declared, his voice imbued with pride.

Vergil smiled back to him. “Good, yes. This is the legend of Sparda, Nero. Sparda is--was… Sparda was my father. Like I am yours.”

Nero stopped moving, his tiny hands still gripping Vergil’s chest tight. He leaned back, enough that he could properly see Vergil. “Demon da’?”

“The first of them, yes.”

Vergil started the legend, then, two millenias ago, when Sparda had been a demon general under Mundus. He tried to keep it simple, but soon Nero stopped tugging at various parts of his devil shape, settling down in Vergil’s lap to listen intently. Vergil ran his claws through the soft white hair, barely scratching the head, his own concentration entirely on keeping his voice steady as he reached the personal part of the legend.

“Sparda had two sons,” he said. “Twins. Your Zio Dante and me. We’re demons, too, but we’re… good ones.” The lie burned his tongue. He wasn’t a good demon; he cared little for most human lives. They were inconsequential compared to his, or Nero’s, or even Dante’s. He had been ready to let them all fend for themselves, if it granted him the power to protect himself. But Nero couldn’t understand that, not so young, and he needed to know Vergil would keep him safe. 

“Good demons,” Nero repeated firmly, before pushing himself up, to climb precariously on Vergil’s folded legs and set his hands against the scaled exterior of his wings, folded forward. “Da’,” he added, running the palm over the scales. “Da’ is not scary. Zio is not scary. Non ho paura.”

“I certainly hope so," Vergil replied, a soft laugh threading through his voice. "You’re your own little monster, after all.” 

He pulled back on his urge to wrap Nero in his arms, instead leaning forward to let him crawl around and explore the back, where he promptly grabbed at the tail again. It was absurdly strange, to let anyone touch his devil form to this extent, but Nero obviously loved it. He kept poking at Vergil like he was an enormous toy, sometimes giggling to himself. Vergil closed his eyes, allowing his mind to focus entirely on the heightened sensation of tiny hands moving across his scaled skin. 

Vergil held the shift as long as he could, but in the quietude of Nero’s exploration, his exhaustion eventually caught up to him. They had gone well past nap hour, in any case, and Nero could all too easily revert to pointless tantrums if he wasn’t properly rested. To the child’s great disappointment, he let scales, tail, and wings vanish once more, then picked him up. There was still so much they needed to learn about one another, so much to do to keep them both going, but Vergil couldn’t go on without sleeping first, and Nero himself was increasingly more tired. For once, Vergil would forego the nap’s opportunity to advance his list of tasks and instead curl next to Nero, to sleep as soundly as his son--one demon dad and his little monster, curled in bed as the afternoon light drifted through the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: HEY Sofia made some absolutely incredibly cute art of this chapter go check it out!! https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1152992562048716800
> 
> THE END. 
> 
> Except, not! You might have noticed I changed this into a series ("Disaster Dad", which is how I refer to it all the time). The next fic is already written, and it's a five-chapters camping trip! We'll be starting that next Sunday. 
> 
> July 28 to August 3 is also DMCGenWeek, and I wrote quite a few of the prompts in this AU, so not only will we have the regular camping fic update, but you can expect other smaller pieces through the week (I think Sunday, Wednesday, Friday, if all goes well). Bref, there's plenty more of soft demon dad content to come ~

**Author's Note:**

> They'll work it out, I promise. XD I hope you enjoy all of this, because writing it has been a blast!


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